THE  LIBRARY 
OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


POPULAR  NOVELS. 

By  Mrs.  Mary  J.   Holmes. 

I. — TEMPEST  AND  SUNSHINE. 
II. — ENGLISH  ORPHANS. 
III. — HOMESTEAD  ON  TI1E  HILLSIDE. 
IV. — LENA  H1VEK8. 
V.— MEADOW  BROOK. 
VI. — DORA  0EANE. 
VII. — COCSIN  MAUDK. 
VIII.— MARIAS  GRAY. 

IX.— DARKNESS  AND  DAYLIGHT. 
X. — HUGH   WOBTIHNGTON. 
XI. — CAMERON  PRIDE. 
XII. — ROSE  MATHER. 
XIII. — ETHELYN'S  MISTAKE. 
XIV. — MILLBANK. 

XV.— EDNA  BROWNING.      (New.) 


olmes  is  a  peculiarly  pleasant  and  fascinating  writer. 
Her  books  are  always  entertaining,  and  she  has 
the  rare  faculty  of  enlisting  the  sympathy 
and  affections  of  her  readers,  and  of 
holding  their  attention  to  her 
pages  with  deep  and 
absorbing  inter 
est. 


All  published  uniform  with  this  volume.     Price  $1.60  each, 
and  sent  free  by  mail,  on  receipt  of  price  by 

«.   W.  CAKL.ETON    &  CO., 
New  York. 


DOKA  DEANE, 


THE  EAST  INDIA  UNCLE; 


AND 


MAGGIE     MILLER, 


OLD    HAGAR'S    SECRET. 


BY   MRS.  MARY    J.  HOLMES, 

or  "LHSA  RIVERS,"  "TFTR  HOMKSTBAD  ON  THB  HILL-SIDE,"  " 

BEOOK,   OB   BOSA    LKK,"    "TEMPEST   AND   Sl'NSlIISE,"    ETC.,    ETC 


NEW    YORK  : 
Carleion,  Publisher,  Madison  Square, 

LONDON :  S.  LOW,  SON  &  CO 
M  DCCC  LXXII. 


Itn  lm«c  ueentinf  to  Act  of  C-ingnm,  In  UM  jw  KM,  tor 
DANIEL     HOLMES, 

£>  itei  Ghrk'i  iXBw  ol  tu*  Dutrirt  Court  of  UM  United  Statw  tov  tk«  Nort>  • 
I«*w  T<afi. 


?s 


CONTENTS    OF    DOKA    DEANE. 


CHAPTER  I. 

P10I 
DORA    AND    HER    MOTHER 9 

CHAPTER  II. 

THE    FIRST   AND   LAST   NEW   TEAR'S   CALL 14 

CHAPTER   III. 

DOHA'S    RELATIVES .       lit 

CHAPTER   IV. 
DORA'S  NEW  HOME 80 

CHAPTER  V. 

BOSK    HILL 87 

CHAPTER  VI. 

MR.    AND   MRS.    BASTINGS  .  . 


CHAPTER  VII. 

THE    VISIT .       W 

CHAPTER   VIII. 

fHK    PARTY 56 

CHAPTER   IX. 

DOKA    AT    P.OSF    HILL 61 

CHAPTER  X. 

EJ.LA.  .  .....       70 


1282308 


CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER  XI. 

not 

UNEXPECTED   GUESTS 289 

CHAPTER  XII. 

THE    WATERS   ARE    TROUBLED ..        .......    802 

CHAPTER  XIII. 

SOCIETY 813 

CHAPTER  XIV. 
MADAM  CONWAY'S  DISASTERS 828 

CHAPTER  XV. 

ARTHUR   CARROLLTON    AND   MAGGIE 852 

CHAPTER  XVI. 

rtRPLEXITY 872 

CHAPTER  XVII. 

BROTHER   AND   SISTER „ 389 

CHAPTER  XVIII. 

THl   PEDDLER , 894 

CHAPTER  XIX. 

THK   TELLING   OF   THE   SECRET 401 

CHAPTER  XX. 

TBB    RESULT 412 

CHAPTER  XXI. 

TUB   SISTERS ' 420 

CHAPTER  XXII. 

fHK   HOUSE   OF   MOURNING 432 

CHAPTER  XXIII. 
•IAOARA _   444 


DORA    DEANE; 

OB, 

THE  EAST  INDIA  UNCLE. 


CHAPTER  I. 

DORA   AND   HER   MOTHER. 

POOR  little  Dora  Deane  !  How  utterly  wretched  mtd 
desolate  she  was,  as  she  crouched  before  the  scanty  fire, 
and  tried  to  warm  the  little  bit  of  worn-out  flannel,  with 
which  to  wrap  her  mother's  feet ;  and  how  hard  she  tried  to 
force  back  the  tears  which  would  burst  forth  afresh  when 
ever  she  looked  upon  that  pale,  sick  mother,  and  thought 
how  soon  she  would  be  gone  ! 

It  was  a  small,  low,  scantily  furnished  room,  high  up  iu 
the  third  story  of  a  crazy  old  building,  which  Dora  called 
her  home,  and  its  one  small  window  looked  out  on  naught 
save  the  roofs  and  spires  of  the  great  city  whose  dull,  mo 
notonous  roar  was  almost  the  only  sound  to  which  she  had 
ever  listened.  Of  the  country,  with  its  bright  green  grass, 
its  sweet  wild  flowers,  its  running  brooks,  and  its  shady 
trees,  she  knew  but  little,  for  only  once  had  she  looked 
on  all  these  things,  and  then  her  heart  was  very  sad,  for  th« 
1* 


t  £)UKA    DEANE 

•right  green  grass  was  broken,  and  the  sweet  wild  flowen 
/rere  trampled  down,  that  a  grave  might  be  made  in  the 
3ark,  moist  earth  for  her  father,  who  had  died  in  early  man 
hood,  leaving  his  wife  and  only  child  to  battle  with  the  sel 
fish  world  as  best  they  could.  Since  that  time,  life  had  been 
long  and  dreary  to  the  poor  widow,  whose  hours  were  well- 
nigh  ended,  for  ere  to-morrow's  sun  was  risen,  she  would, 
"tiave  a  better  home  than  that  dreary,  cheerless  room,  while 
Dora,  at  the  early  age  of  twelve,  would  be  an  orphan. 

It  was  a  cold  December  night,  the  last  one  of  the  year, 
and  the  wintry  wind,  which  swept  howling  past  the  curtain- 
less  window,  seemed  to  take  a  sadder  tone,  as  if  in  pity  for 
the  little  girl  who  knelt  upon  the  hearthstone,  and  with  the 
dim  firelight  flickering  over  her  tear-stained  face,  prayed 
that  she,  too,  might  die,  and  not  be  left  alone. 

"  It  will  be  so  lonely — so  cold  without  my  mother  !"  she 
murmured.  "  Oh,  let  me  go  with  her;  I  cannot  live  alone." 

"  Dora,  my  darling,"  came  faintly  from  the  rude  couch, 
and  in  an  instant  the  child  was  at  her  mother's  side. 

Winding  her  arms  fondly  about  the  neck  of  her  daughter, 
and  pushing  the  soft  auburn  hair  from  off  her  fair,  open 
brow,  Mrs.  Deane  gazed  long  and  earnestly  upon  her  face. 

"  Yes,  you  are  like  me,"  she  said  at  last,  "  and  I  am  glad 
that  it  is  so,  for  it  may  be  Sarah  will  love  you  better  when 
she  sees  in  you  a  look  like  one  who  once  called  her  sister, 
And  should  he  ever  return  " 

She  paused,  while  her  mind  went  back  to  the  years  long 
ago— to  the  old  yellow  farm-house  among  the  New  England 
bills — to  the  grey-haired  man,  who  had  adopted  her  as  his 
own  when  she  was  written  fatherless — to  the  dark-eyed  girl, 
sometimes  kind,  and  sometimes  overbearing,  whom  she  had 
called  her  sister,  though  there  was  no  tie  of  blood  between 
Miein.  Then  she  thought  of  the  red  house  just  across  tho 


DORA    AND    HER    MOTHER.  U 

way,  and  of  the  three  brothers,  Nathaniel,  Richard,  and 
John,  Very  softly  she  repeated  the  name  of  the  latter, 
ieeining  to  see  him  again  as  he  was  on  the  day  when,  with 
the  wreath  of  white  apple  blossoms  upon  her  brow,  she  sat 
on  the  mossy  bank  and  listened  to  his  low  spoken  words  of 
love.  Again  she  was  out  in  the  pale  starlight,  and  heard 
the  autumn  wind  go  moaning  through  the  locust  trees  as 
Nathanid,  the  strange,  eccentric,  woman-hating  Nathaniel, 
but  just  returned  from  the  seas,  told  her  how  madly  he  had 
loved  her,  and  how  the  knowledge  that  she  belonged  to 
another  would  drive  him  from  his  fatherland  forever — that 
in  the  burning  clime  of  India  he  would  make  gold  his  idol, 
forgetting,  if  it  were  possible,  the  mother  who  had  borne 
him  !  Then  she  recalled  the  angry  scorn  with  which  her 
adopted  sister  had  received  the  news  of  her  engagement 
with  John,  and  how  the  conviction  was  at  last  forced  upoij 
her  that  Sarah  herself  had  loved  him  in  secrev  and  that  in 
a  fit  of  desperation  she  had  given  her  hand  U  the  rathei 
inefficient  Richard,  ever  after  treating  her  rival  with  a  cool 
reserve,  which  now  came  back  to  her  with  painful  distinct, 
ness. 

"  But  she  will  love  rny  little  Dora  for  John's  sake,  if  not 
for  mine,"  she  thought,  at  last :  and  then,  as  if  she  had  alj 
the  time  been  speaking  to  her  daughter,  she  continued, 
"  And  you  must  be  very  dutiful  to  your  aunt,  and  kind  to 
your  cousins,  fulfilling  their  slightest  wishes." 

Looking  up  quickly,  Dora  asked,  "  Have  you  written  to 
Aunt  Sarah  ?  Does  she  say  I  can  come  ?" 

"  The  letter  is  written,  and  Mrs.  Gannis  will  send  it  ag 
soon  as  I  am  dead,"  answered  Mrs.  Deane.     "  I  am  sure  shf 
will  give  you  a  home.     I  told  her  there  was  no  alternative 
but  the  almshouse  ;"  then,  after  a  pause,  she  added  :  " 
wrote  to  your  ancle  Nathaniel  seme  months  ago,  when 


I»  DOHA    DEANE. 

knew  that  I  must  die.  It  is  time  for  his  reply,  but  I  bada 
him  direct  to  Sarah,  as  I  did  not  then  think  to  see  the 
winter  snow." 

"  Did  you  tell  him  of  m*  ?"  eagerly  asked  Dora,  on  whom 
the  name  of  Uncle  Nathaniel,  or  "  Uncle  Nat,"  as  he  was 
more  familiarly  called,  produced  a  more  pleasant  impression 
than  did  that  of  her  aunt  Sarah. 

"  Yes,"  answered  the  mother,  "  it  was  of  you  that  I 
wrote,  commending  you  to  his  care,  should  he  return  tf 
America.  And  if  you  ever  meet  him,  Dora,  tell  him  tha, 
on  my  dying  bed  I  thought  of  him  with  affection — that  my 
mind  wandered  back  to  the  years  of  long  ago,  when  I  waa 
young,  and  ask  him,  for  the  sake  of  one  he  called  his  bro 
ther,  and  for  her  who  grieves  that  ever  she  caused  him  a 
moment's  pain,  to  care  for  you,  their  orphan  child." 

Then  followed  many  words  of  love,  which  were  very 
precious  to  Dora  in  the  weary  years  which  followed  that  sad 
night ;  and  then,  for  a  time,  there  was  silence  in  that  little 
room,  broken  only  by  the  sound  of  the  wailing  tempest. 
The  old  year  was  going  out  on  the  wings  of  a  fearful  storm, 
und  as  the  driving  sleet  beat  against  the  casement,  while 
the  drifting  snow  found  entrance  through  more  than  one 
^vide  crevice  and  fell  upon  her  pillow,  the  dying  woman 
murmured,  "  Lie  up  closer  to  me,  Dora,  I  am  growing  very 
cold." 

Alas  !  'twas  the  chill  of  death  ;  but  Dora  did  not  know 
it,  and  again  on  the  hearthstone  before  the  fast  dying  coals 
she  knelt,  tryiLg  to  warm  the  bit  of  flannel,  on  which  her 
burning  tears  fell  like  rain,  when  through  the  empty  wood- 
box  she  sought  in  vain  for  chip  or  bark  with  which  to 
increase  the  scanty  fire. 

"  But  I  will  not  tell  her,"  she  softly  whispered,  when  satis 
fied  that  her  search  was  vain,  and  wrapping  the  flannel 


DORA    AND    HER    MOTHER.  18 

around  the  icy  feet,  she  untied  the  long-sleeved  apron  which 
covered  her  own  naked  arms,  and  laying  it  over  her 
mother's  shoulders,  tucked  in  the  thin  bedclothes;  and  then, 
herself  all  shivering  and  benumbed,  she  sat  down  to  wait 
and  watch,  singing  softly  a  familiar  hymn,  which  had  some 
times  lulled  her  mother  into  a  quiet  sleep. 

At  last,  as  her  little  round  white  arms  grew  purple 
with  the  cold,  she  moved  nearer  to  the  bedside,  and  winding 
them  lovingly  around  her  mother's  neck,  laid  her  head  upon 
the  pillow  and  fell  asleep.  And  to  the  angels,  who  were 
hovering  near,  waiting  to  bear  their  sister  spirit  home,  there 
was  given  charge  concerning  the  little  girl,  so  that  she  did 
not  freeze,  though  she  sat  there  the  live-long  night,  calmly 
sleeping  the  sweet  sleep  of  childhood,  while  the  mother  at 
her  side  slept  the  long,  eternal  sleep  of  death  1 


14  DORA    DEANE. 


CHAPTER  II. 

THE    FIRST    AND   LAST    NEW   YEAB's    CALL. 

IT  was  New  Year's  morning,  and  over  the  great  city  lay 
the  deep,  untrodden  snow,  so  soon  to  be  trampled  down  by 
thousands  of  busy  feet.  Cheerful  fires  were  kindled  in 
many  a  luxurious  home  of  the  rich,  and  "  Happy  New  Year  " 
was  echoed  from  lip  to  lip,  as  if  on  that  day  there  were  no 
aching  hearts — no  garrets  where  the  biting  cold  looked  iu 
on  pinching  poverty  and  suffering  old  age — no  low,  dark 
room  where  Dora  and  her  pale,  dead  mother  lay,  while  over 
them  the  angels  kept  their  tireless  watch  till  human  aid 
should  come.  But  one  there  was  who  did  not  forget — one 
about  whose  house  was  gathered  every  elegance  which 
fashion  could  dictate  or  money  procure  ;  and  now,  as  she 
sat  at  her  bountifully-furnished  breakfast  table  sipping  her 
fragrant  chocolate,  she  thought  of  the  poor  widow,  Dora'a 
mother,  for  whom  her  charity  had  been  solicited  the  day 
before,  by  a  woman  who  lived  in  the  same  block  of  buildings 
with  Mrs.  Deane. 

"  Brother,"  she  said,  glancing  towards  a  young  man  who, 
before  the  glowing  grate,  was  reading  the  morning  paper, 
1  suppose  you  make  your  first  call  with  me  ?" 

"Certainly,"  he  answered;  "and  it  will  probably  be  iu 
Borne  dreary  attic  or  dark,  damp  basement ;  but  it  is  well, 
J  suppose,  to  begin  the  New  Year  by  remembering  the  poor." 


THE  FIRST  AND  LAST  NEW  YEAR'S  tALL.  Id 

Half  au  hour  later,  and  the  crazy  stairs  which  led  to  the 
chamber  of  death  were  creaking  to  the  tread  of  the  lady 
and  her  brother,  the  latter  of  whom  knocked  loudly  for 
admission.  Receiving  no  answer  from  within,  they  at  last 
raised  the  latch  and  entered.  The  fire  had  long  since  gone 
out,  and  the  night  wind,  as  it  poured  down  the  chimney, 
had  scattered  the  cold  ashes  over  the  hearth  and  out  upon 
the  floor.  Piles  of  snow  lay  on  the  window  sill,  and  a 
tumbler  in  which  some  water  had  been  left  standing,  waa 
broken  in  pieces.  All  this  the  young  man  saw  at  a  glance, 
but  when  his  eye  fell  upon  the  bed,  he  started  back,  for 
there  was  no  mistaking  the  rigid,  stony  expression  of  the 
upturned  face,  which  lay  there  so  white  and  motionless. 

"  But  the  child — the  child,"  he  exclaimed,  advancing 
forward — "  can  she,  too,  be  dead  ?"  and  he  laid  his  warm 
hand  gently  on  Dora's  brow. 

The  touch  aroused  her,  and  starting  up,,  she  looked 
around  for  a  moment  bewildered  ;  but  when  at  last  she 
turned  towards  her  mother,  the  dread  reality  was  forced 
upon  her,  arid  in  bitter  tones  she  cried,  "  Mother's  dead, 
mother's  dead,  and  I  am  all  alone  1  Oh  !  mother,  mother, 
come  back  again  to  me  1" 

The  young  man's  heart  was  touched,  and  taking  the 
child's  little  red  hands  in  his,  he  rubbed  them  gently,  trying 
to  soothe  her  grief ;  while  his  sister,  summoning  the 
inmates  from  the  adjoining  room,  gave  orders  that  the 
body  should  receive  the  necessary  attention  ;  then,  learning 
as  much  as  was  possible  of  Dora's  history,  and  assuring  her 
that  she  should  be  provided  for  until  her  aunt  came,  she 
weat  away,  promising  to  return  next  morning  and  bo 
present  at  the  humble  funeral. 

That  evening,  as  Dora  sat  weeping  by  the  coffin  in  whkh 
tier  mother  lay,  a  beautiful  young  girl,  with  eyes  of  deepest 


1C  DORA    DEAN'E. 

blue,  and  locks  of  golden  hair,  smiled  a  joyous  welcome  to 
him  whoso  first  New  Year's  call  had  been  in  the  chamber  of 
death,  and  whose  last  was  to  her,  the  petted  child  of  fashion. 

"  I  had  almost  given  you  up,  and  was  just  going  to  cry," 
<ehe  said,  laying  her  little  snow-flake  of  a  hand  upon  the  one 
which  that  morning  had  chafed  the  small,  stiff  fingers  of 
Dora  Deane,  and  which  now  tenderly  pressed  those  of  Ella 
Grey  as  the  young  man  answered,  "  I  have  not  felt  like  going 
out  to-day,  for  my  first  call  saddened  me  ;"  and  then,  with 
his  arm  around  the  fairy  form  of  Ella,  his  affianced  bride, 
he  told  her  of  the  cold,  dreary  room,  of  the  mother  colder 
still,  and  of  the  noble  little  girl,  who  had  divested  herself 
of  her  own  clothing,  that  her  mother  might  be  warm. 

Ella  Grey  had  heard  of  such  scenes  before — had  cried 
over  them  in  books  ;  but  the  idea  that  site  could  do  any 
thing  to  relieve  the  poor,  had  never  entered  her  mind.  It 
is  true,  she  had  once  given  a  party  dress  to  a  starving  wo 
man,  and  a  pound  of  candy  to  a  ragged  boy  who  had  asked 
for  aid,  but  here  her  charity  ended  ;  so,  though  she  seemed 
to  listen  with  interest  to  the  sad  story,  her  mind  was  wan 
dering  elsewhere,  and  when  her  companion  ceased,  she 
merely  said,  "Romantic,  wasn't  it." 

There  was  a  look  of  disappointment  on  the  young  man's 
face,  which  was  quickly  observed  by  Ella,  who  attributed  it 
to  its  right  source,  and  hastened  to  ask  numberless  ques 
tions  about  Dora — "  How  old  was  she  ?  Did  he  think  her 
pretty,  and  hadn't  she  better  go  to  the  funeral  the  next 
day  and  bring  her  home  for  a  waiting-maid  ? — she  wanted 
one  sadly,  and  from  the  description,  the  orphan  girl  would 
just  suit." 

"  No,  Ella,"  answered  her  lover  ;  "  the  child  is  going  to 
live  in  the  country  with  some  relatives,  and  will  be  mucb 
better  off  there.'' 


THE  FIRST  AND  LAST  NEW  YEAR'S  CALL.  11 

"  The  country,"  repeated  Ella.  "  /  would  rather  freeze 
In  New  York  than  to  live  in  the  dismal  country." 

Again  the  shadow  came  over  the  gentleman's  brow,  as  ha 
said,  "Do  you  indeed  object  so  much  to  a  home  in  the 
country  ?" 

Ella  knew  just  what  he  wanted  her  to  say  ;  so  she 
answered,  "  Oh,  no,  I  can  be  happy  anywhere  with  you, 
but  do  please  let  me  spend  just  one  winter  in  the  city 
after" 

Here  she  paused,  while  the  bright  blushes  broke  over  her 
childish  face.  She  could  not  say,  even  to  him,  "after  wa 
are  married,"  so  he  said  it  for  her,  drawing  her  closer  to 
his  side,  and  forgetting  Dora  Deane,  as  he  painted  the 
joyous  future  when  Ella  would  be  all  his  own.  Eleven 
o'clock  sounded  from  more  than  one  high  tower,  and  at 
each  stroke  poor  Dora  Deane  moaned  in  anguish,  thinking 
to  herself,  "  Last  night  at  this  time  she  was  here."  Eleven 
o'clock,  said  Ella  Grey's  diamond  set  watch,  and  pushing 
back  her  wavy  hair,  the  young  man  kissed  her  rosy  cheek, 
and  bade  her  a  fond  good-night.  As  he  reached  the  door, 
she  called  him  back,  while  she  asked  him  the  name  of  the 
little  girl  who  had  so  excited  his  sympathy. 

"  I  do  not  know,"  he  answered.  "  Strange  that  I  forgot 
to  inquire.  But  no  matter.  We  shall  never  meet  again  ;" 
and  feeling  sure  that  what  he  said  was  true,  he  walked 
away. 


DORA    DBAN1. 


CHAPTER  III. 
DORA'S    RELATIVES. 

THREE  hundred  miles  to  the  westward,  and  the"  storm, 
»hich,  on  New  Year's  eve,  swept  so  furiously  over  all  parts 
rf  the  State,  was  perceptible  only  in  the  dull,  grey  clouds 
Krhich  obscured  the  wintry  sky,  shutting  out  the  glimmering 
starlight,  and  apparently  making  still  brighter  the  many 
»heerful  lights  which  shone  forth  from  the  handsome  dwell 
ings  in  the  village  of  Dunwood.  Still  the  night  was  in 
tensely  cold,  and,  as  Mrs.  Sarah  Deane,  in  accordance  with 
her  daughter  Eugenia's  request,  added  a  fresh  bit  of  coal 
to  the  already  well-filled  stove,  she  sighed  involuntarily, 
wishing  the  weather  would  abate,  for  the  winter's  store  of 
fuel  was  already  half  gone,  and  the  contents  of  her  purse 
irere  far  too  scanty  to  meet  the  necessity  of  her  household, 
*nd  at  the  same  time  minister  to  the  wants  of  her  extrava 
gant  daughters. 

"  But  I  can  economize  in  one  way,"  she  said,  half  f>Ioud, 
and  crossing  the  room  she  turned  down  the  astral  lamp 
which  was  burning  brightly  upon  the  table. 

"Don't,  pray  mother,  make  it  darker  than  a,  dungeon  !" 
petulantly  exclaimed  Eugenia,  herself  turning  back  the 
lamp.  "  I  do  like  to  have  rooms  light  enough  to  see  one's 
self;"  and  glancing  complacently  at  the  reflection  of  her 
handsome  face,  in  the  mirror  opposite,  she  resumed  hei 
former  lounging  attitude  upon  the  sofa. 


HER    RELATIVES.  1» 

Mw.  Deane  sighed  again,  but  she  had  long  since  ceased 
VJ  oppose  the  imperious  Eugenia,  who  was  to  all  intents 
tnd  purposes  the  mistress  of  the  house,  and  who  oftentimes 
fed  her  mother  and  weaker-minded  sister  into  the  commis 
sion  of  acts  from  which  they  would  otherwise  have  shrunk. 
Possessed  of  a  large  share  of  romance,  Eugenia  had  given 
to  their  place  the  name  of  "  Locust  Grove  ;"  and  as  Mrs. 
Deane  managed  to  keep  up  a  kind  of  outside  show  by 
practising  the  most  pinching  economy  in  everything  per 
taining  to  the  actual  comfort  of  her  family,  they  were 
looked  upon  as  being  quite  wealthy  and  aristocratic  by 
those  who  saw  nothing  of  their  inner  life — who  knew 
nothing  of  the  many  shifts  and  turns  in  the  kitchen  to  save 
money  for  the  decoration  of  the  parlors,  or  of  the  frequent 
meagre  meals  eaten  from  the  pantry  shelf,  in  order  to  make 
amends  for  the  numerous  dinner  and  evening  parties  which 
Eugenia  and  Alice  insisted  upon  giving,  and  which  their 
frequent  visits  to  their  friends  rendered  necessary.  Ex 
tensive  servant-hire  was  of  course  too  expensive,  and,  as 
both  Eugenia  and  Alice  affected  the  utmost  contempt  for 
anything  like  work,  their  mother  toiled  in  the  kitchen  from 
morning  until  night,  assisted  only  by  a  young  girl,  whose 
mother  constantly  threatened  to  take  her  away,  unless  her 
*ages  were  increased,  a  thing  which  seemed  impossible. 

It  was  just  after  this  woman's  weekly  visit,  and  in  the 
«nidst  of  preparations  for  a  large  dinner  party,  that  Mrs. 
Deane  received  her  sister's  letter,  to  which  there  was  added 
a  postscript,  in  a  strange  handwriting,  saying  she  was 
dead.  There  was  a  moisture  in  Mrs.  Dcane's  eyes  as  she 
read  the  touching  lines  ;  and  leaning  her  heated  forehead 
against  the  cool  window  pane,  she,  too,  thought  of  the 
years  gone  by — of  the  gentle  girl,  the  companion  of  hef 
childhood,  who  had  never  given  her  an  unkind  word-  of 


80  DORA    DEAXE. 

him — the  only  man  she  had  ever  loved — and  Dora  was  theif 
child — Fanny's  child  and  John's. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  half  aloud,  "I  will  give  her  a  home," 
but  anon  there  came  stealing  over  her  the  old  bitterness  of 
feeling,  which  she  had  cherished  since  she  knew  that  Fannj 
was  preferred  to  herself,  and  then  the  evil  of  her  natur< 
whispered,  "No,  I  will  not  receive  their  child.  We  can 
hardly  manage  to  live  now,  and  it  is  not  my  duty  to  incur 
an  additional  expense.  Dora  must  stay  where  she  is,  and 
if  I  do  not  answer  the  letter,  she  will  naturally  suppose  I 
never  received  it." 

Thus  deciding  the  matter,  she  crashed  the  letter  into  her 
pocket  and  went  back  to  her  work  ;  but  there  was  an  added 
weight  upon  her  spirits,  while  continually  ringing  in  her 
ears  were  the  words,  "  Care  for  John's  child  and  mine." 
"  If  I  could  only  make  her  of  any  use  to  me,"  she  said  •W; 
last,  and  then  as  her  eye  fell  upon  Bridget,  whose  st> 7  with 
her  was  so  uncertain,  the  dark  thought  entered  her  mind, 
"  Why  could  not  Dora  fill  her  place  ?  It  would  be  a  great 
saving,  and  of  course  the  child  must  expect  to  work." 

Still,  reason  as  she  would,  Mrs.  Deane  could  not  at  once 
bring  herself  to  the  point  of  making  a  menial  of  one  who 
was  every  way  her  equal ;  neither  could  she  decide  to  pass 
the  letter  by  unnoticed  ;  so  for  the  present  she  strove  to 
dismiss  the  subject,  which  was  not  broached  to  her  daugh 
ters  until  the  evening  on  which  we  first  introduced  them  to 
our  readers.  Then  taking  her  seat  by  the  brightly  burning 
lamp,  she  drew  the  letter  from  her  pocket  and  read  it  aloud, 
*Mle  Alice  drummed  an  occasional  note  upon  the  piano  and 
Eugenie  beat  a  tattoo  upon  the  carpet  with  her  delicate 
French  slipper. 

"  Of  course  she  won't  come,"  said  Alice,  as  her  mothe* 
duished  reading.  "  It  was  preposterous  in  Aunt  Fanny  to 


HER    RELATIVES.  fl 

propose  such  a  thing  I"  aud  she  glanced  towards  Eugenia 
for  approbation  of  what  she  had  said. 

Eugenia's  quick,  active  mind  had  already  looked  at  the 
subject  in  all  its  bearings,  and  iu  like  manner  with  her 
mother  she  saw  how  Dora's  presence  there  would  be  a  bene 
fit ;  so  to  Alice's  remark  she  replied  :  "  It  will  sound  well 
for  us  to  have  a  cousin  in  the  poorhouse,  won't  it  ?  For  my 
part,  I  propose  that  she  comes,  and  then  be  made  to  earn 
her  own  living.  We  can  dismiss  Bridget,  who  is  only  two 
years  older  than  Dora,  and  we  shall  thus  avda  quarrelling 
regularly  with  her  vixenish  mother,  besides  saving  a  dollar 
every  week" 

"  So  make  a  drudge  of  Dora,"  interrupted  Alice.  "  Better 
leave  her  in  the  poorhouse  at  once." 

"  Nobody  intends  to  make  a  drudge  of  her,"  retorted  Eu 
genia.  "  Mother  works  in  the  kitchen,  and  I  wonder  if  it 
will  hurt  Dora  to  help  her.  Every  girl  ought  to  learn  to 
work  !" 

"  Except  Eugenia  Deane,"  suggested  Alice,  laughing,  to 
think  how  little  her  sister's  practice  accorded  with  her 
theory. 

At  this  point  in  the  conversation,  Bridget  entered,  bring 
ing  a  letter  which  bore  the  India  post-mark,  together  with 
the  unmistakable  handwriting  of  Nathaniel  Deane  I 

"  A  letter  from  Uncle  Nat,  as  I  live  1"  exclaimed  Eugenia. 
"  What  is  going  to  happen  ?  He  hasn't  written  before  iu 
years.  I  do  wish  I  knew  when  he  expected  to  quir  this 
mundane  sphere,  and  how  much  of  his  money  he  intenda 
leaving  me  1" 

-  By  this  time  Mrs.  Deane  had  broken  the  seal,  uttering  an 
exclamation  of  surprise  as  a  check  for  $500  fell  into  her  lap* 

"  Five  hundred  dollars  I"  screamed  Eugenia,  catching  up 
the  check  aud  examining  it  closely,  to  see  that  there  wag 


S*  .  DORA    DEANi,. 

no  mistake.  "  The  old  miser  has  really  opened  his  heart 
Now  we'll  have  some  genuine  silver  forks  for  our  best  com* 
pany,  so  we  shan't  be  in  constant  terror  lest  some  one  should 
discover  that  they  are  only  plated.  I'll  buy  that  set  of 
pearls  at  Mercer's,  too,  and,  Alice,  you  and  I  will  have  some 
new  furs.  I'd  go  to  Rochester  to-morrow,  if  it  were  not 
Sunday.  What  shall  we  gel  for  you,  mother  ?  A  web  of 
cloth,  or  an  ounce  of  sewing  silk  ?"  and  the  heartless  girl 
turned  towards  her  mother,  whose  face  was  white  as  ashes, 
as  she  said  faintly  :  "  The  money  is  not  ours.  It  is  Dora's — 
to  be  used  for  her  benefit." 

"  Not  ours  !  What  do  you  mean  ?  It  can't  be  true  !" 
cried  Eugenia,  snatching  the  letter,  and  reading  therein  a 
confirmation  of  her  mother's  words. 

After  a  slight  apology  for  his  long  silence,  Uncle  Nat  had 
spoken  of  Fanny's  letter,  saying  he  supposed  she  must  be 
dead  ere  this,  and  that  Dora  was  probably  living  with  her 
aunt,  as  it  was  quite  natural  she  should  do.  Then  he 
expressed  his  willingness  to  defray  all  the  expense  which  she 
might  be,  adding  that  though  he  should  never  see  her,  as  he 
was  resolved  to  spend  his  days  in  India,  he  still  wished  to 
think  of  her  as  an  educated  and  accomplished  woman. 

"  Accompanying  this  letter,"  he  wrote,  "  is  a  check  for 
$500,  to  be  used  for  Dora's  benefit.  Next  "year  I  will  make 
another  remittance,  increasing  the  allowance  as  she  grows 
older.  I  have  more  money  than  I  need,  and  I  know  of  no 
one  on  whom  I  would  sooner  expend  it  than  the  child  of 
Fanny  Moore." 

"  Spiteful  old  fool  I"  muttered  Eugenia,  "  I  could  relieve 
him  of  any  superfluous  dimes  he  may  possess." 

But  even  Eugenia,  heartless  as  she  was,  felt  humbled  and 
subdued  for  a  moment,  as  she  read  the  latter  part  of  her 
ancle's  letter,  from  which  we  give  the  follow  ug  extract : 


HER    RELATIVES.  21 

"  1  am  thinking,  to-day,  of  the  past,  Sarah,  and  I  grow  a 
very  child  again  as  I  recall  the  dreary  years  which  have 
gone  over  my  head,  since  last  I  trod  the  shores  of  my 
father-land.  You,  Sarah,  know  much  of  my  history.  You 
StEOw  that  I  was  awkward,  eccentric,  uncouth,  and  many 
years  older  than  my  handsomer,  more  highly  gifted  brother; 
and  yet  with  all  this  fearful  odds  against  me,  you  know 
that  I  ventured  to  love  the  gentle,  fair-haired  Fanny,  your 
adopted  sister.  You  know  this,  I  say,  but  you  do  not  know 
how  madly,  how  passionately  such  as  I  can  love — did  love  ; 
nor  how  the  memory  of  Fanny's  ringing  laugh,  and  the 
thought  of  the  sunny  smile,  with  which  I  knew  she  would 
welcome  me  home  again,  cheered  me  on  my  homeward  voy 
age,  when  in  the  long  night-watches  I  paced  the  vessel's 
deck,  while  the  stars  looked  coldly  down  upon  me,  and  there 
was  no  sound  to  break  the  deep  stillness,  save  the  heavy 
swell  of  the  sea.  At  the  village  inn  where  I  stopped  for  a 
moment  ere  going  to  my  father's  house,  I  first  heard  that 
her  hand  was  plighted  to  another,  and  in  my  wild  frenzy,  I 
swore  that  my  rival,  whoever  it  might  be,  should  die  ! 

"  It  was  my  youngest  brother — he,  who,  on  the  sad  night 
when  our  mother  died,  had  laid  his  baby  head  upon  my 
bosom,  and  wept  himself  to  sleep — he  whose  infant  steps  I 
had  guided,  bearing  him  often  in  my  arms,  lest  he  should 
'  clash  his  foot  against  a  stone.'  And  his  life  I  had  sworn  to 
take,  for  had  he  not  come  between  me  and  the  only  object 
I  had  ever  loved  ?  There  was  no  one  stirring  about  the 
house,  for  it  was  night,  and  the  family  had  retired.  But  the 
door  was  unfastened,  and  I  knew  the  way  up-stairs.  I 
tbund  him,  as  I  had  expected,  in  our  old  room,  and  all 
alone  ;  for  Richard  was  away.  Had  he  been  there,  it 
should  make  no  difference,  I  said,  but  he  was  absent,  aud 
Joha  was  calmly  sleeping  with  his  face  upturned  to  the  soft 


*,  DORA    DEANE 

moonlight  which  came  in  through  the  open  window.  1  had 
not  seen  him  for  two  long  years,  and  now  there  was  about 
him  a  look  so  much  like  that  of  my  dead  mother  when  she 
lay  in  her  coffin  bed,  that  the  demon  in  my  heart  was  soft 
ened,  and  I  seemed  to  hear  her  dying  words  again,  '  I  can 
trust  you,  Nathaniel  ;  and  to  your  protection,  as  to  a  second 
mother,  I  commit  my  little  boy.' 

"  The  little  boy,  whose  curls  were  golden  then,  was  now 
a  brown-haired  man — my  brother — the  son  of  my  angel 
mother,  whose  spirit,  in  that  dark  hour  of  my  temptation, 
glided  into  the  silent  room,  and  stood  between  me  and  hef 
youngest  born,  so  that  he,  was  not  harmed,  and  /  was  saved 
from  the  curse  of  a  brother's  blood. 

"  '  Lead  us  not  into  temptation,'  came  back  to  me,  just  as 
I  had  said  it  kneeling  at  my  mother's  side  ;  and  covering  my 
face  with  my  hands,  I  thanked  God,  who  had  kept  me  from 
BO  great  a  sin.  Bending  low,  I  whispered  in  his  ear  his 
name,  and  in  a  moment  his  arms  were  around  my  neck, 
while  he  welcomed  me  back  to  the  home,  which,  he  said, 
was  not  home  without  me.  And  then,  when  the  moon  had 
gone  down,  and  the  stars  shone  too  faintly  to  reveal  his 
blushes,  he  told  me  the  story  of  his  happiness,  to  which  I 
listened,  while  the  great  drops  of  sweat  rolled  down  my  facu 
and  moistened  the  pillow  on  which  my  head  was  resting. 

"  But  why  linger  over  those  days  of  anguish,  which  made 
me  an  old  man  before  my  time  ?  I  knew  I  could  not  stand 
by  and  see  her  wedded  to  another — neithsr  could  I  look 
upon  her  after  she  was  another's  wife  ;  so,  one  night,  wheu 
the  autumn  days  were  come,  I  asked  her  to  go  with  me  out 
beneath  the  locust  trees,  which  skirted  my  father's  yard. 
It  was  there  I  had  seen  her  for  the  first  time,  and  it  was 
there  I  would  take  my  final  leave.  Of  the  particulars  of 
that  interview  I  remember  but  little,  for  I  was  terribly  ez 


HER    RELATIVES.  25 

cited.     We  never  met  again,  for  ere  the  morrow's  daylight 
dawned,  I  hid  left  my  home  forever" 

Then  followed  a  few  more  words  concerning  Dora,  with  a 
request  that  she  should  write  to  him,  as  he  would  thus  be 
able  to  judge  something  of  her  character  ;  and  there  the 
letter  ended. 

For  a  time  there  was  silence,  which  was  broken  at  last  by 
Eugenia,  whose  active  mind  had  already  come  to  a  decision. 
Dora  would  live  with  them,  of  course — it  was  best  that  she 
should,  and  there  was  no  longer  need  for  dismissing  Bridget. 
The  five  hundred  dollars  obviated  that  necessity,  and  it  was 
theirs,  too — theirs  by  way  of  remuneration  for  giving  Dora  a 
home — theirs  to  spend  as  they  pleased.  And  she  still  in 
tended  to  have  the  furs,  the  pearls,  and  the  silver  forks,  just 
the  same  as  though  the  money  had  been  a  special  gift  to 
her  1 

"  Suppose  Uncle  Nat  should  happen  to  come  home,  and 
Dora  should  tell  him  ?"  suggested  Alice,  who  did  no*  so 
readily  fall  in  with  her  sister's  views. 

"  He'll  never  do  that  in  the  world,"  returned  Eugenia. 
"  And  even  if  he  should,  Dora  will  havo  nothing  to  tell,  for 
she  is  not  supposed  to  know  of  the  money.  If  we  feed, 
clothe,  and  educate  her,  it  is  all  we  are  required  to  do." 

"  But  would  that  be  exactly  just  ?"  faintly  interposed 
Mrs.  Deane,  whose  perceptions  of  right  and  wrong  were  not 
quite  so  blunted  as  those  of  her  daughter,  who,  in  answer  to 
her  question,  proceeded  to  advance  many  good  reasons  why 
Dora,  for  a  time  at  least,  should  be  kept  in  ignorance  of  the 
fact  that  her  uncle  supported  her,  and  not  her  aunt. 

"  We  can  manage  her  better  if  she  thinks  she  is  depend- 
81 1  upon  us  And  then,  as  she  grows  older,  she  will  not  bo 
continually  asking  what  has  become  of  the  money,  which,  a? 
I  understand  the  matter,  is  really  ours,  and  not  hers" 

2 


26  DORA    DEAXE. 

Still,  Mrs.  Deane  was  not  quite  convinced,  but  she  knew 
how  useless  it  would  be  to  argue  the  point  ;  so  she  said 
nothing,  except  to  ask  how  Dora  was  to  get  there,  as  she 
coald  not  come  alone. 

"  I  have  it,"  answered  Eugenia.  "  I  have  long  wished  to 
spend  a  few  days  in  New  York,  but  that  bane  of  my  life, 
poverty,  has  always  prevented.  Now,  however,  as  old 
Uncle  Nat  has  kindly  furnished  us  with  the  means,  I  pro 
pose  that  Alice  and  I  start  day  after  to-morrow,  and  return 
on  Saturday.  That  will  give  us  ample  time  to  see  the  lions 
and  get  the  city  fashions." 

"  It  will  cost  a  great  deal  for  you  both  to  stay  at  those 
large  hotels,"  said  Mrs.  Deane  ;  and  Eugenie  replied — 

"  One  hundred  dollars  will  cover  all  the  expense,  and  pay 
Dora's  fare  besides.  What  is  the  use  of  money,  if  we  can't 
use  it  ?  I  shall  get  my  furs,  and  jewelry,  and  forks  whilii 
I'm  there,  so  Pi  better  take  along  three  hundred  and  fifty 
dollars,  for  fear  of  any  accident.  We  are  not  obliged  to 
spend  it  all,  of  course  ;"  she  added,  as  she  saw  the  look  of 
dismay  on  her  mother's  face.  "  And  we  can  bring  back 
whatever  there  is  left." 

For  nineteen  years  Eugenia  Deane  had  been  suffered  to 
have  her  way,  and  her  mother  did  not  like  to  thwart  her 
now,  for  her  temper  was  violent,  and  she  dreaded  an  out 
break;  so  she  merely  sighed  in  reply,  and  when,  on  Monday 
morning,  Eugenia  started  for  New  York,  her  purse  con 
tained  the  desired  $350,  which,  after  her  arrival  in  the  city, 
was  spent  as  freely  as  if  it  really  belonged  to  her,  and  not 
to  the  orphan  Dora,  who  was  now  staying  with  Mrs.  Gran- 
nis,  a  kind-hearted  woman  in  the  same  block  where  hei 
mother  had  died.  The  furs  were  bought,  the  pearls  ex> 
amined,  the  forks  priced,  and  then  Alice  ventured  to  asi 
when  they  were  going  to  find  Dora. 


HER    RELATIVES.  21 

41 1  shall  leave  that  for  the  last  thing,"  answered  Eugenia 
"  She  can't  ran  away,  and  nobody  wants  to  be  bothered 
with  a  child  to  look  after." 

So  for  three  more  days  little  Dora  looked  out  of  the 
'Jingy  window  upon  the  dirty  court  below,  wishing  her  aunt 
would  come,  and  wondering  if  sho  should  like  her.  At  la&t, 
towards  the  close  of  Friday  afternoon,  there  was  a  knock 
at  the  door,  and  a  haughty-looking,  elegantly  dressed  young 
lady  inquired  if  a  little  orphan  girl  lived  there. 

"  That's  her — Aunt  Sarah,"  exclaimed  Dora,  springing 
joyfully  forward;  but  she  paused  and  started  back,  as  she 
met  the  cold,  scrutinizing  glance  of  Eugenia's  large  black 
eyes. 

"  Are  you  the  child  I  am  looking  for  ?"  asked  Eugenia, 
without  deigning  to  notice  Mrs.  Grannis's  request  that  she 
would  walk  in. 

"  I  am  Dora  Dcane,"  was  the  simple  answer;  and  then,  aa 
briefly  as  possible,  Eugenia  explained  that  she  had  been 
sent  for  her,  and  that  early  the  next  morning  she  would  call 
to  take  her  to  the  depot. 

"  Did  you  know  mother  ?  Are  you  any  relation  ?'1 
asked  Dora,  trembling  with  eager  expectation;  and  Alice, 
who,  without  her  sister's  influence,  would  have  been  a  com 
paratively  kind-hearted  girl,  answered  softly,  "  We  are  your 
cousins." 

There  was  much  native  politeness,  and  natural  refinement 
of  manner  about  Dora,  and  instinctively  her  little  chubby 
hand  was  extended  towards  her  newly  found  relative,  who 
pressed  it  gently,  glancing  the  while  at  her  sister,  who, 
without  one  word  of  sympathy  for  the  orphan  girl,  walked 
away  through  the  winding  passage,  and  down  the  narrow 
stairs,  out  into  the  sunlight,  where,  breathing  more  freely, 
she  exclaimed,  "  What  a  horrid  p'aee  !  I  hope  I  haven'l 


28  DORA    DEA^E. 

caught  anything.  Didn't  Dora  look  like  a  Dutch  dofl  in 
that  long  dress,  and  high-neck  apron  ?" 

"  Her  face  is  pretty,  though,"  returned  Alice,  "  and  her 
eyes  are  beautiful — neither  blue  nor  black,  but  a  mixture  of 
both.  How  I  pitied  her  as  they  filled  with  tears  when  you 
were  talking  I  Why  didn't  you  speak  to  her  ?" 

"  Because  I'd  nothing  to  say,"  answered  Eugenia,  step 
ping  into  the  carriage  which  had  brougdt  them  there,  and 
ordering  the  driver  to  go  next  to  Stuart's,  where  she  wished 
to  look  again  at  a  velvet  cloak.  "  It  is  so  cheap,  and  s( 
becoming,  too,  that  I  am  half  tempted  to  get  it,"  she  ex 
claimed. 

"  Mother  won't  like  it,  I  know,"  said  Alice,  who  hersell 
began  to  have  some  fears  for  the  $350. 

"  Fudge  I"  returned  Eugenia,  adding  the  next  moment, 
"  I  wonder  if  she'll  have  to  buy  clothes  for  Dora  the  first 
thing.  I  hope  not,"  and  she  drew  around  her  the  costlj 
fur,  for  which  she  had  paid  fifty  dollars. 

Of  course  the  cloak  was  bought,  together  with  several 
other  articles  equally  cheap  and  becoming,  and  by  the  time 
the  hotel  bills  were  paid,  there  were  found  in  the  purse  just 
twenty-five  dollars,  with  which  to  pay  their  expenses  back 
to  Dunwood. 


There  were  bitter  tears  shed  at  the  parting  next  morning 
in  Mrs.  Grannis's  humble  room,  for  Dora  felt  that  the  frienda 
to  whom  she  was  going,  were  not  like  those  she  left  behind; 
and  very  lovingly  her  arms  wound  themselves  around  tha 
poo-  widow's  neck  as  she  wept  her  last  adieu,  begging  Mrs. 
Gianni?  not  to  forget  her,  but  to  write  sometimes,  and  teU 
her  of  the  lady  who  had  so  kindly  befriended  her. 

"  We  can't  wait  any  longer,"  tried  Eugenia,  aad  will 


HER    RELATIVES.  « 

oie  more  farewell  kiss,  Dora  went  out  of  the  bouse  where 
sh«  bad  experienced  much  of  happiness,  and  where  had  come 
to  aer  her  deepest  grief. 

"  Forlorn  1  What  is  that  old  thing  going  for  1  Leave 
it,"  said  Eugenia,  touching  with  her  foot  a  square,  greeu 
trunk  or  chest,  which  stood  by  the  side  of  the  long,  sack 
like  carpet-bag  containing  Dora's  wardrobe. 

"  It  was  father's — and  mother's  clothes  are  iu  it,"  an 
swered  Dora,  with  quivering  lips. 

There  was  something  in  the  words  and  manner  of  the  lit 
tle  girl,  as  she  laid  her  hand  reverently  on  the  offending 
trunk,  that  touched  even  Eugenia  ;  and  she  said  no  more. 
An  hour  later,  and  the  attention  of  more  than  one  passenger 
in  the  Hudson  River  cars  was  attracted  towards  the  two 
stylish-looking  ladies  who  came  in,  laden  with  bundles,  and 
followed  by  a  little  girl  in  black,  for  whom  no  seat  was 
found  save  the  one  by  the  door  where  the  wind  crept  in,  and 
the  unmelted  frost  still  covered  the  window  pane. 

"  Won't  you  be  cold  here  ?"  asked  Alice,  stopping  a  mo 
ment,  ere  passing  on  to  her  own  warm  seat  near  the  stove. 

"  No  matter  ;  I  am  used  to  it,"  was  Dora's  meek  reply  ; 
and  wrapping  her  thin,  half-worn  shawl  closer  about  her, 
and  drawing  her  feet  up  beneath  her,  she  soon  fell  asleep, 
dreaming  sweet  dreams  of  the  home  to  which  she  was  going, 
and  of  the  Aunt  Sarah  who  would  be  to  her  a  second 
mother  I 

God  Mp  thee,,  Pori  Deant! 


DORA    DEANS. 


CHAPTER  IV. 
DORA'S  NEW  HOME. 

ONE  year  has  passed  away  since  the  night  when,  cold, 
weary  and  forlorn,  Dora  followed  her  cousins  up  the  gra 
velled  walk  which  led  to  her  new  home.  One  whole  year, 
and  in  that  time  she  has  somewhat  changed.  The  merry 
hearted  girl,  who,  until  a  few  weeks  before  her  mother's 
death,  was  happier  far  than  many  a  favored  child  of  wealth, 
has  become  a  sober,  quiet,  self-reliant  child,  performing  with 
out  a  word  of  complaint  the  many  duties  which  have  gra 
dually  been  imposed  upon  her. 

From  her  aunt  she  had  received  a  comparatively  welcome 
greeting,  and  when  Eugenia  displayed  her  purchases,  which 
had  swallowed  up  the  entire  three  hundred  and  fifty  dollars, 
Mrs.  Deane  had  laid  her  hand  on  the  little  girl's  soft,  au 
burn  hair,  as  if  to  ask  forgiveness  for  the  injustice  done  her 
by  the  selfish  Eugenia,  whose  only  excuse  for  her  extrava 
gance  was,  that  "  no  one  in  her  right  mind  need  to  think 
of  bringing  back  any  money  from  New  York." 

And  Dora,  from  her  seat  on  a  little  stool  behind  the  stove, 
ouderstood  nothing,  thought  of  nothing,  except  that  Euge 
nia  looked  beautifully  in  her  velvet  cloak  and  furs,  and  that 
her  aunt  must  be  very  rich,  to  afford  so  many  handsome 
articles  of  furniture  as  the  parlor  contained. 

"  And  I  am  glad  that  she  is,"  she  thought,  "  fcr  she  wil] 
not  be  so  likely  to  think  me  in  the  way." 


DORA'S   NEW    HOMii!.  81 

As  time  passed  on,  however,  Dora,  who  was  a  close  ob 
server,  began  to  see  things  in  their  true  light,  and  her  life 
was  far  from  being  happy.  By  her  cousin  Alice  she  was 
i:eatcd  with  a  tolerable  degree  of  kindness,  while  Eugenia, 
\vithout  any  really  evil  intention,  perhaps,  seemed  to  take 
delight  in  annoying  her  sensitive  cousin,  constantly  taunting 
her  with  her  dependence  upon  them,  and  asking  her  some 
times  how  she  expected  to  repay  the  debt  of  gratitude  she 
owed  them.  Many  and  many  a  night  had  the  orphan  wept 
herself  to  sleep,  in  the  low,  scantily  furnished  chamber 
which  had  been  assigned  her  ;  and  she  was  glad  when  at 
last  an  opportunity  was  presented  for  her  to  be  in  a  mea 
sure  out  of  Eugenia's  way,  and  at  the  same  time  feel  that 
she  was  doing  something  towards  earning  her  living. 

The  oft-repeated  threat  of  Bridget's  mother  that  her 
daughter  should  be  removed,  unless  her  wages  were-  in 
creased,  was  finally  carried  into  effect ;  and  one  Saturday 
night,  Mrs.  Deane  was  startled  by  the  announcement  that 
Bridget  was  going  to  leave,  In  a  moment,  Dora's  resolu 
tion  was  taken,  and  coming  to  her  aunt's  side,  she 
said  : 

"  Don't  hire  another  girl,  Aunt  Sarah.  Let  me  help  you. 
I  can  do  almost  as  much  as  Bridget,  and  you  won't  have  to 
pay  me  either.  I  shall  only  be  paying  you." 

Unclasping  the  handsome  bracelet  which  had  been  pur 
chased  with  a  portion  of  the  remaining  one  hundred  and 
fifty  dollars,  Eugenia,  ere  her  mother  had  time  to  reply, 
exclaimed  : 

"  That  is  a  capital  idea  1  I  wonder  how  you  happened 
tc  be  so  thoughtful." 

And  so  it  was  decided  that  Dora  should  take  Bridget's 
place,  she  thinking  how  much  she  would  do,  and  how  hard 
ehe  would  try  to  please  her  aunt,  who  quieted  her  owu  coil- 


M  DORA    DEANE. 


by  saying  "it  was  only  a  -temporary  arrangement 
until  she  could  find  another  servant." 

But  as  the  days  went  by,  the  temporary  arrangement  fcJd 
fair  to  become  permanent,  for  Mrs.  Dcane  could  not  bo 
insensible  to  the  vast  difference  which  Bridget's  absence 
made  in  her  weekly  expenses.  Then,  too,  Dora  was  so  will* 
ing  to  work,  and  so  uncomplaining,  never  seeking  a  word  of 
commendation,  except  once,  indeed,  when  she  timidly  ven/ 
tared  to  ask  Eugenia  if  "  what  she  did  was  enough  to  pay 
for  her  board  ?" 

"Just  about,"  was  Eugenia's  answer,  which,  indifferent  aa 
it  was,  cheered  the  heart  of  Dora,  as,  day  after  day,  she 
toiled  on  in  the  comfortless  kitchen,  until  her  hands,  which, 
when  she  came  to  Locust  Grove,  were  soft  and  white  as 
those  of  an  infant,  became  rough  and  brown,  and  her  face 
gradually  assumed  the  same  dark  hue,  for  she  could  not 
always  stop  to  tie  on  her  sun-bonnet,  when  sent  for  wood  or 
water. 

With  the  coming  of  summer,  arrangements  had  been 
made  for  sending  her  to  school,  though  Mrs.  Deane  felt  at 
first  as  if  she  could  not  be  deprived  of  her  services.  Still 
for  appearance's  sake,  if  for  nothing  more,  she  must  go  ; 
and  with  the  earliest  dawn  the  busy  creature  was  up,  work 
ing  like  a  bee,  that  her  aunt  and  cousins  might  not  have  so 
much  to  do  in  her  absence.  At  first  she  went  regularly, 
but  after  a  time  it  became  very  convenient  to  detain  her  at 
home,  for  at  least  two  days  in  every  week,  and  this  wrung 
from  her  almost  the  only  tears  she  had  shed  since  the  morn 
ing,  when,  of  her  own  accord,  she  had  gone  into  the  kitclicu 
to  perform  a  servant's  duties. 

Possessing  naturally  a  fondness  for  books,  and  feeling 
ambitious  to  keep  up  with  her  class,  she  at  last  conceived 
the  idea  of  studying  at  home  ;  and  many  a  night,  long  aftej 


DORA'S    NEW    HOME.  8> 

her  aunt  and  cousins  were  asleep,  she  sat  up  alone,  poring 
over  her  books,  sometimes  by  the  dim  light  of  a  lamp, 
and  again  by  the  light  of  the  full  moc:,  whose  rays  seemed 
to  fall  around  her  more  brightly  than  elsewhere.  It  was  on 
one  of  these  occasions,  when  tracing  upon  her  map  the 
boundary  lines  of  India,  that  her  thoughts  reverted  to  her 
uncle  Nathaniel,  whose  name  she  seldom  heard,  and  of  whom 
she  had  never  but  once  spoken.  Then  in  the  presence  of 
her  aunt  and  cousins  she  had  wondered  why  he  did  not 
answer  her  mother's  letter. 

"  Because  he  has  nothing  to  write,  I  presume,"  said 
Eugenia,  who  would  not  trust  her  mother  to  reply. 

And  Dora,  wholly  unsuspecting,  never  dreamed  of  the 
five  hundred  dollars  sent  over  for  her  benefit,  and  which 
was  spent  long  ago — though  not  for  her — never  dreamed  of 
the  letter  which  Eugenia  had  written  iii  reply,  thanking  her 
uncle  again  and  again  for  his  generous  gift,  which  she  said 
"  was  very  acceptable,  for  ma  was  rather  poor,  and  it  would 
aid  her  materially  in  providing  for  the  wants  of  Dora,"  who 
was  represented  as  being  "  a  queer,  old-fashioned  child,  pos 
sessing  but  little  affection  for  any  one,  and  who  never  spoke 
of  her  uncle  Nathaniel,  or  manifested  the  least  gratitude 
for  what  he  was  doing  1" 

In  short,  the  impression  left  upon  the  mind  of  Uncle 
Nat  was  that  Dora,  aside  from  being  cold-hearted,  was 
uncommonly  dull,  and  would  never  make  much  of  a  woman, 
do  what  they  might  for  her  !  With  a  sigh,  and  a  feeling 
of  keen  disappointment,  he  read  the  letter,  saying  to  him 
self,  as  he  laid  it  away,  "  Can  this  be  true  of  Fanny's 
child  r 

But  this,  we  say,  Fanny's  child.did  not  know  ;  and  as  Ler 
ve  wandered  over  the  painted  map  of  Indix,  she  resolved 
o  write  and  to  tell  him  of  her  mother's  dying  words — teU 


f,l  DORA    DEANE. 

him  how  much  she  loved  him,  because  he  was  her  father's 
brother,  and  how  she  wished  he  would  come  home,  that 
sue  might  know  him  better. 

"  If  I  only  had  some  keepsake  to  send  him — something 
he  would  prize,"  she  thought,  when  her  letter  was  finished. 
And  then,  as  she  enumerated  her  small  store  of  treasures, 
she  remembered  her  mother's  beautiful  hair,  which  had  been 
cut  from  her  head,  as  she  lay  in  her  coffin,  and  which  now 
held  a  place  in  the  large  square  trunk.  "  I  will  send  him  a 
lock  of  that,"  she  said  ;  and  kneeling  reverently  by  the 
old  green  trunk,  the  shrine  where  she  nightly  said  her 
prayers,  she  separated  from  the  mass  of  rich,  brown  hair, 
one  long,  shining  tress,  which  she  inclosed  within  her  letter, 
adding,  in  a  postscript,  "  It  is  mother's  hair,  and  Dora's 
tears  have  often  fallen  upon  it.  'Tis  all  I  have  to  give." 

Poor  little  Dora  !  Nathaniel  Deane  would  have  prized 
that  simple  gift  far  more  than  all  the  wealth  which  he  called 
his,  but  it  was  destined  never  to  reach  him.  The  wily 
Eugenia,  to  whom  Dora  applied  for  an  envelope,  unhesitat 
ingly  showing  what  she  had  written,  knew  better  than  to 
eend  that  note  across  the  sea,  and  feigning  the  utmost 
astonishment,  she  said  :  "  I  am  surprised,  Dora,  that  after 
your  mother's  ill-success,  you  should  think  of  writing  to 
Uncle  Nat.  He  is  a  suspicious,  miserly  old  fellow,  and  will 
undoubtedly  think  you  are  after  his  money  1" 

"  I  wouldn't  send  it  for  the  world,  if  I  supposed  he'd  fancy 
such  a  thing  as  that,"  answered  Dora,  her  eyes  filling  with 
tears 

"  Of  course  you  wouldn't,"  c\,  ^ued  Eugenia,  perceiving 
hoi  advantage  and  following  it  uj  "  You  can  do  as  you 
IIKC,  but  my  advice  is  that  you  do  not  send  it ;  let  him 
write  to  you  '  rst,  if  he  wishes  to  open  a  correspot 
deuce  1" 


DOEA'S   NEW    HOME.  U 

This  decided  the  matter,  and  turning  sadly  away,  Dora 
went  back  to  her  chamber,  hiding  the  letter  and  the  lock 
af  hair  in  the  old  green  trunk. 

"  How  can  you  be  so  utterly  yoid  of  principle  ?"  asked 
Alice,  as  Dora  quitted  the  room;  and  Eugenia  replied  :  "  It 
Isn't  a  lack  of  principle,  it's  only  my  good  management.  I 
have  my  plans,  and  I  do  not  intend  they  shall  be  frustrated 
by  that  foolish  letter,  which  would,  of  course,  be  followed 
by  others  of  the  same  kind.  Now  I  am  perfectly  willing 
that  Uncle  Nat  should  divide  his  fortune  between  us  and 
Dora,  but  unfortunately  he  is  a  one  idta  man,  and  should  1^ 
conceive  a  fancy  for  our  cousin,  our  hopes  are  blasted  tor 
ever  ;  so  I  don't  propose  letting  him  do  any  such  thin~ 
Mother  has  given  up  the  correspondence  to  me,  and  I  intend 
raaking  the  old  gentleman  think  I  am  a  most  perfect  speci 
men'  of  what  a  young  lady  should  be,  saying,  of  course,  an 
occasional  good  word  for  you  !  I  believe  I  understand  him 
tolerably  well,  and  if  in  the  end  I  win,  I  pledge  you  my 
word  that  Dora  shall  not  be  forgotten.  Are  you  satisfied  ?" 

Alice  could  not  say  yes,  but  she  knew  it  was  useless  to 
reason  with  her  sister,  so  she  remained  silent;  while  a  curious 
train  of  thoughts  passed  through  her  mind,  resulting  at  last 
in  an  increased  kindness  of  manner  on  her  part  towards  her 
young  cousin,  who  was  frequently  relieved  of  duties  whict. 
would  otherwise  have  detained  her  from  school.  Ana 
Dora's  step  grew  lighter,  and  her  heart  happier,  as  she 
thought  that  Alice  at  least  cared  for  her  welfare. 

On  New  Year's  Day  there  came  a  letter  from  Uncle  Nat, 
containing  the  promised  check,  which  Eugenia  held  up  to 
view,  while  she  read  the  following  brief  lines  : 

"  Many  thanks  to  Eugenia  for  her  kind  and  welcome 
letter,  which  I  may  answer  at  some  future  time,  when  I  have 
anything  interesting  to  say." 

''  Have  you  written  to  Uncle  Nat,  and  did  you  tell  him 


U  DORA    DEAtffc. 

yf  me,  or  of  mother's  letter  ?"  exclaimed  Dora,  who  had  beei 
•fitting  unobserved  behind  the  stove,  and  who  now  sprang 
eagerly  forward,  while  her  cheeks  glowed  with  excitement. 

Soon  recovering  her  composure,  Eugenia  answered,  "  Yes. 
I  wrote  to  him,  and,  of  course,  mentioned  you  with  the  rest 
of  us.  His  answer  you  have  heard." 

"  But  the  other  paper,"  persisted  Dora.  "  Doesn't  that 
say  anything  ?" 

For  a  moment  Eugenia  hesitated,  and  then,  deciding  that 
BO  harm  could  come  of  Dora's  knowing  of  the  money,  pro 
vided  she  was  kept  in  ignorance  of  the  object  for  which  it 
was  sent,  she  replied,  carelessly,  "  Oh,  that's  nothing  but  a 
Jieck.  The  old  gentleman  was  generous  enough  to  send  us 
a  little  money,  which  we  need  badly  enough." 

There  was  not  one  particle  of  selfishness  in  Dora's  dispo 
sition,  and  without  a  thought  or  wish  that  any  of  the  money 
should  be  expended  for  herself,  she  replied,  "  Oh,  I  am  so 
glad,  for  now  Aunt  Sarah  can  have  that  shawl  she  has 
wanted  so  long,  and  Alice  the  new  merino." 

Dear  little  Dora  !  she  did  not  know  why  Eugenia's  eyes 
so  quickly  sought  the  floor,  nor  understand  why  her  aunt's 
hand  was  laid  upon  her  head  so  caressingly.  Neither  did 
she  know  that  Alice's  sudden  movement  towards  the  window 
was  to  hide  the  expression  of  her  face  ;  but  when,  a  few 
days  afterwards,  she  was  herself  presented  with  a  handsome 
.merino,  which  both  Eugenia  and  Alice  volunteered  to  make, 
she  thought  there  was  not  in  Dunwood  a  happier  child  than 
herself.  In  the  little  orphan's  pathway  there  were  a  few 
Euuny  spots,  and  that  night  when,  by  the  old  green  trunk, 
she  knelt  her  down  to  pray,  she  asked  of  God  that  he  would 
reward  her  aunt  and  cousins  according  to  their  kindnesses 
done  to  her  ! 

Need  -we  say  that  childish  prayer  was  answered  to  th« 
letter  ! 


ROSE    HILL.  »< 


CHAPTER   V. 

ROSE    HILL. 

A  LITTLE  \vay  out  of  the  village  of  Dumfood,  and  situ 
ated  upon  a  slight  eminence,  was  a  large,  handsome  build 
ing,  which  had  formerly  been  owned  by  a  Frenchman,  who, 
from  the  great  profusion  of  roses  growing  upon  his  grounds, 
had  given  to  the  place  the  name  of  "  Rose  Hill."  Two 
years  before  our  story  opens,  the  Frenchman  died,  and 
since  that  time  Rose  Hill  had  been  unoccupied,  but  now  it 
had  another  proprietor,  and  early  in  the  summer  Mr. 
Howard  Hastings  and  lady  would  take  possession,  of  their 
new  home. 

Of  Mr.  Hastings  nothing  definite  was  known,  except 
that  he  was  a  man  of  unbounded  wealth  and  influence — 
"  and  a  little  peculiar  withal,"  so  said  Mrs.  Leah,  the  ma 
tron,  who  had  come  up  from  New  York  to  superintend  the 
arrangement  of  the  house,  which  was  fitted  up  in  a  style  of 
elegance  far  surpassing  what  most  of  Dunwood's  inhabit 
ants  had  seen  before,  and  was  for  two  or  three  weeks 
thrown  open  to  the  public.  Mrs.  Leah,  who  was  a  servant 
in  Mr,  Hastings's  family  and  had  known  her  young  mistress's 
husband  from  childhood,  was  inclined  to  be  rather  com 
municative,  and  when  asked  to  explain  what  she  meant  by 
Mr.  Hastings's  peculiarities,  replied,  "  Oh,  he's  queer  every 
way — and  no  wonder,  with  his  kind  of  a  mother.  Why, 
she  is  rich  as  a  Jew,  and  for  all  that,  she  made  her  oul.j 


M  DORA    DEANE. 

daughter  learn  how  to  do  all  kinds  of  work.  It  would 
make  her  a  better  wife,  she  said,  and  so,  because  Ella  had 
rather  lie  on  the  sofa  and  read  a  nice  novel  than  to  be 
pokin'  round  in  the  kitchen  and  tending  to  things,  as  he 
calls  it,  Mr.  Hastings  looks  blue  and  talks  about  woman's 
duties,  and  all  that  nonsense.  Recently  he  has  taken  it 
into  his  head  that  late  hours  are  killing  her — that  it  isn't 
healthy  for  her  to  go  every  night  to  parties,  concerts, 
operas,  and  the  like  o'  that,  so  he's  going  to  bury  her  in  the 
stupid  country,  where  she'll  be  moped  to  death,  for  of  course 
there's  nobody  here  that  she'll  associate  with." 

"  The  wretch  I"  exclaimed  Eugenia,  who  formed  one  of 
the  group  of  listeners  to  this  precious  Lit  of  gossip  ;  but 
whether  she  intended  this  cognomen  for  the  cruel  husband, 
or  Mrs.  Leah,  we  do  not  know,  as  she  continued  to  question 
the  old  lady  of  Mrs.  Hastings  herself,  asking  if  her  health 
were  delicate  and  if  she  were  pretty. 

"Delicate!  I  guess  she  is,"  returned  Mrs.  Leah.  "If 
she  hasn't  got  the  consumption  now,  she  will  have  it. 
Why,  her  face  is  as  white  as  some  of  them  lilies  that  used 
to  grow  on  the  ponds  in  old  Connecticut  ;  and  then  to 
think  her  husband  won't  let  her  take  all  the  comfort  she 
can,  the  little  time  she  has  to  live  !  It's  too  bad,"  and  the 
corner  of  Dame  Leah's  silk  apron  went  up  to  her  eyes,  as 
she  thought  how  her  lady  was  aggrieved.  Soon  recovering 
her  composure,  she  reverted  to  Eugenia's  last  question,  and 
hastened  to  reply,  "  Pretty,  don't  begin  to  express  it.  Just 
iuagine  the  least  little  bit  of  a  thing,  with  the  whitest  face, 
the  bluest  eyes  and  the  yellowest  curls,  dressed  in  a  light 
blue  silk  wrapper,  all  lined  with  white  satin,  and  tied  with  a 
tassel  as  big  as  my  fist  ;  wouldn't  such  a  creature  look  weii 
in  the  kitchen,  telling  Hannah  it  was  time  to  get  dinner, 
&nd  seeing  if  Tom  was  cleaning  the  vegetables  1" 


ROSE    HILL.  83 

And  Mrs.  Leah's  nose  went  up  at  the  very  idea  of  a  blue 
eilk  wrapper  being  found  outside  of  the  parlor,  even  if  the 
husband  of  said  wrapper  did  have  to  wait  daily  at  least  two 
hours  for  his  badly  cooked  dinner  1 

"  Oh,  but  you  ought  to  see  her  dressed  for  a  party,"  con 
tinued  Mrs.  Leah,  "  she  looks  like  a  queen,  all  sparkling 
with  diamonds  and  pearls  ;  but  she'll  never  go  to  many 
more,  poor  critter  1" 

And  as  the  good  lady's  services  were  just  then  needed  iu 
another  part  of  the  building,  she  bade  good  morning  to  her 
audience,  who  commented  upon  what  they  had  heard,  each 
according  to  their  own  ideas — some  warmly  commending 
Mr.  Hastings  for  removing  his  delicate  young  wife  from  the 
unwholesome  atmosphere  of  the  city,  while  others,  and 
among  them  Eugenia,  thought  he  ought  to  let  her  remain 
in  New  York,  if  she  chose.  Still,  while  commiserating  Mrs. 
Hastings  for  being  obliged  to  live  in  "  that  stupid  village," 
Eugenia  expressed  her  pleasure  that  she  was  coming,  and 
on  her  way  home  imparted  to  Alice  her  intention  of  being 
quite  intimate  with  the  New  York  lady,  notwithstanding  what 
"  the  spiteful  old  Mrs.  Leah  "  had  said  about  there  being  no 
one  in  Dunvvood  fit  for  her  to  associate  with.  In  almost 
perfect  ecstasy  Dora  listened  to  her  cousin's  animated  de 
scription  of  Rose  Hill,  its  handsome  rooms  and  elegant  fur 
niture,  and  while  her  cheeks  glowed  with  excitement,  she 
exclaimed,  "  Oh,  how  I  wish  I  could  really  live  in  such  a 
house  !" 

"  And  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  you  did.  Your  present 
prospects  look  very  much  like  it,"  was  Eugenia's  scornful 
reply,  which  Dora  scarcely  heard,  for  her  thoughts  wero 
busy  elsewhere. 

She  had  an  eye  for  the  beautiful,  and,  strange  to  say, 
would  at  any  time  have  preferred  remaining  in  her  aunt's 


40  DORA    DKANE. 

pleasant  parlor,  to  washing  dishes  from  off  the  long  kitchen 
table ;  bat  as  this  last  seemed  to  be  her  destiny,  she  sub 
mitted  without  a  murmur,  contenting  herself  the  while  by 
building  ca,stles.  just  as  many  a  child  has  done  before  her, 
and  will  do  again.  Somehow,  too,  Dora's  castles,  particu 
larly  the  one  of  which  she  was  mistress,  were  always  large 
and  beautiful,  just  like  Eugenia's  description  of  Rose  Hill, 
to  which  she  had  listened  with  wonder,  it  seemed  so  natu 
ral,  so  familiar,  so  like  the  realization  of  what  she  had 
many  a  time  dreamed,  while  her  hands  were  busy  with  the 
dish-towel  or  the  broom. 

Dora  was  a  strange  child — so  her  mother  and  her  aunt 
Sarah  ooth  had  told  her — so  her  teachers  thought,  and  so 
her  companions  said,  when  she  stole  away  by  herself  to 
think,  preferring  her  own  thoughts  to  the  pastime  of  her 
schoolmates.  This  thinking  was  almost  the  only  recreation 
which  Dora  had,  and  as  it  seldom  interfered  with  the  prac 
tical  duties  of  her  life,  no  one  was  harmed  if  she  did  some 
times  imagine  the  most  improbable  things  ;  and  if  for  a  few 
days  succeeding  her  cousin's  visit  to  Rose  Hill,  she  did  seem 
a  little  inattentive,  and  somewhat  abstracted,  it  was  merely 
because  she  had  for  a  time  changed  places  with  the  fashion 
able  Mrs.  Hastings,  whose  blue  silk  morning-gown,  while 
discussed  in  the  parlor,  was  worn  in  fancy  in  the  kitchen. 

Dream  on,  Dora  Deane,  dream  on — but  guard  this,  your 
last  imagining,  most  carefully  from  the  proud  Eugenia,  who 
would  scarce  deem  you  worthy  to  take  upon  your  lips  the 
name  of  Mrs.  Hastings,  much  less  to  be  eren  in  fancy  the 
adstress  of  Rose  Hill. 


MR.  AND    MRS.  HASTINGS. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

MR.     AND     MRS.     HASTINGS. 

IN  blissful  ignorance  of  the  gossip  which  his  movements 
were  exciting  in  Dunwood,  Mr.  Hastings  in  the  city  went 
quietly  on  with  the  preparations  for  his  removal,  purchasing 
and  storing  away  in  divers  baskets,  boxes  and  bags,  many 
luxuries  which  he  knew  he  could  not  readily  procure  in  the 
country,  and  which  would  be  sadly  missed  by  his  young 
girl-wife,  who  sat  all  day  in  her  mother's  parlor,  bemoaning 
her  fate  in  being  thus  doomed  to  a  life  in  the  "  horribly 
vulgar  country."  She  had  forgotten  that  she  could  live 
anywhere  with  him,"  for  the  Ella  Hastings  of  to-day  is  the 
Ella  Grey  of  little  more  than  a  year  ago,  the  same  who  had 
listened  to  the  sad  story  of  Dora  Deane,  without  ever  think 
ing  that  some  day  in  the  future  she  should  meet  the  little 
girl  who  made  such  an  impression  upon  her  husband. 

Howard  Hastings  was  not  the  only  man  who,  with  a 
grand  theory  as  to  what  a  wife  ought  to  be,  had  married 
from  pure  laivy  ;  finding  too  late  that  she  whom  he  took 
cor  a  companion  was  a  mere  plaything — a  doll  to  be 
dressed  up  and  Je'nt  out  into  the  fashionable  world,  where 
Alone  her  happiness  could  be  found.  Still  the  disappoint 
ment  to  such  is  not  the  less  bitter,  because  others,  too,  aro 
suffering  from  the  effect  of  a  like  hallucination,  and  Howard 
Hastings  feH  it  most  keenly.  He  loved,  or  fancied  IM 


»»  DORA    DEANS. 

ioved,  Ella  Grey  devotedly,  and  when  in  her  soft  flowing 
robes  of  richly  embroidered  lace,  with  the  orange  blossoms 
resting  upon  her  golden  carls,  and  her  long  eye-lashes  veil 
ing  her  eyes  of  blue,  she  had  stood  at  the  altar  as  his  bride, 
there  was  not  in  all  New  York  a  prouder  or  a  happier  man. 
Alas,  that  in  the  intimate  relations  of  married  life,  there 
should  ever  be  brought  to  light  faults  whose  existence  was 
never  suspected  1  Yet  so  it  is,  and  the  honey-moon  had 
scarcely  waned,  ere  Mr.  Hastings  began  to  feel  a  very  little 
disappointed,  as,  one  after  another,  the  peculiarities  of  his 
wife  were  unfolded  to  his  view. 

In  all  his  pictures  of  domestic  bliss,  there  had  ever  been 
a  home  of  his  own,  a  cheerful  fireside,  to  which  he  could 
repair,  when  the  day's  toil  was  done,  but  Ella  would  not 
hear  of  housekeeping.  To  be  sure,  it  would  be  very  pleasant 
to  keep  up  a  grand  establishment  and  give  splendid  dinner 
parties,  but  she  knew  that  Howard,  with  his  peculiar 
notions,  would  expect  her  to  do  just  as  his  "  dear,  fussy  old 
mother  did,"  and  that,  she  wouldn't  for  a  moment  think  of, 
for  she  really  "  did  not  know  the  names  of  one  half  the  queer 
looking  things  in  the  kitchen." 

"  She  will  improve  as  she  grows  older — she  is  very  young 
yet,  but  little  more  than  eighteen,"  thought  Mr.  Hastings; 
and  his  heart  softened  toward  her,  as  he  remembered  the 
kind  of  training  she  had  received  from  her  mother,  who  was 
a  pure  slave  of  fashion,  and  would  have  deemed  her  daugh 
ters  degraded  had  they  possessed  any  knowledge  of  work 

And  still,  when  the  aristocratic  Howard  Hastings  had 
•ue<l  for  Ella's  hand,  she  felt  honored,  notwithstanding  that 
ooth  his  mother  and  sister  were  known  to  be  well  skilled  in 
everything  pertaining  to  what  she  called  "drudgery."  To 
remove  his  wife  from  her  mother's  influence,  and  at  the 
<ame  time  prolong  her  life,  for  she  was  really  very  delicate, 


MR.   AND    MRS.   HASTINGS.  Y. 

was  Mr.  Hastings's  aim  ;  and  as  be  had  always  fancied  a 
home  in  the  country,  he  at  last  purchased  Rose  Hill  farm  in 
spite  of  Ella's  tears,  and  the  frowns  of  her  mother,  who 
declared  it  impossible  for  her  daughter  to  live  without 
society,  and  pronounced  all  country  people  "rough,  ignorant 
and  vulgar." 

All  this  Ella  believed,  and  though  she  was  far  too 
amiable  and  sweet-tempered  to  be  really  angry,  she  came 
very  near  sulking  all  the  way  from  New  York  to  Dunwood 
But  when  at  the  depot,  she  met  the  new  carriage  and  horses 
which  had  been  purchased-  expressly  for  herself,  she  waa 
somewhat  mollified,  and  telling  her  husband  "  he  was  the 
best  man  in  the  world,"  she  took  the  reins  in  her  own  little 
soft,  white  hands,  and  laughed  aloud  as  she  saw  how  the 
spirited  creatures  obeyed  her  slightest  wish.  From  the  par 
lor  windows  of  Locust  Grove,  Eugenia  and  her  sister  looked 
out  upon  the  strangers,  pronouncing  Mr.  Hastings  the  most 
elegant-looking  man  they  had  ever  seen,  while  his  wife,  the 
girlish  Ella,  was  thought  far  too  pale  to  be  very  beautiful. 

Near  the  gate  at  the  entrance  to  Rose  Hill,  was  a  clear 
limpid  stream,  where  the  school-children  often  played,  and 
where  they  were  now  assembled.  A  little  apart  from  the 
rest,  seated  upon  a  mossy  bank,  with  her  bare  feet  in  the 
running  water,  and  her  rich  auburn  hair  shading  her  brown 
cheeks,  was  Dora  Deane,  not  dreaming  this  time,  but  watch 
ing  so  intently  a  race  between  two  of  her  companions,  that 
she  did  not  see  the  carriage  until  it  was  directly  opposite. 
Then,  guessing  who  its  occupants  were,  she  started  up, 
coloring  crimson  as  she  saw  the  lady's  eyes  fixed  upon  her, 
and  felt  sure  she  was  the  subject  of  remark. 

"  Look,  Howard,"  said  Ella.  "  I  suppose  that  is  what 
you  call  a  rural  sight — a  bare-foot  girl,  with  a  burnt  face 
and  huge  sun-bonnet  ?" 


44  DORA    DEANE. 

Ere  Mr.  Hastings  could  reply,  Dora,  wishing  to  redeem 
her  character,  which  she  was  sure  she  had  lost  by  having 
been  caught  with  her  feet  in  the  brook,  darted  forward  and 
opening  the  gate,  held  it  for  them  to  pass. 

"  Shall  I  give  her  some  money  ?"  softly  whispered  Ella, 
feeling  for  her  purse. 

"  Hush-sh  1"  answered  Mr.  Hastings,  for  he  knew  that 
money  would  be  an  insult  to  Dora,  wh'  felt  more  than 
repaid  by  the  pleasant  smile  he  gave  her  as  _ie  said,  "  Thank 
you,  miss." 

"  I  have  seen  a  face  like  his  before,"  thought  Dora,  as 
Bhe  walked  slowly  down  the  road,  while  the  carriage  kept 
ou  its  way,  and  soon  carried  Ella  to  her  new  home. 

Not  to  be  pleased  with  Hose  Hill  was  impossible,  and  as 
the  young  wife's  eye  fell  upon  the  handsome  building,  with 
its  cool,  vine-wreathed  piazza — upon  the  shaded  walks,  the 
sparkling  fountains  and  the  thousands  of  roses  which  were 
now  in  full  bloom,  she  almost  cried  with  delight,  even  for 
getting,  for  a  time,  that  she  was  in  the  "  horrid  country." 
But  she  was  ere  long  reminded  of  the  fact  by  Mrs.  Leah, 
who  told  of  the  "  crowds  of  gaping  people,"  who  had  been 
up  to  see  the  house.  With  a  deprecating  glance  at  the  vil 
lage  where  the  "  gaping  people  "  were  supposed  to  live,  Ella 
drew  nearer  to  her  husband,  expressing  a  wish  that  the  good 
folks  of  Dunwood  would  confine  their  calls  to  the  house  and 
grounds,  and  not  be  troubling  her.  But  in  this  she  was  des 
tined  to  be  disappointed,  for  the  inhabitants  of  Dunwood 
were  friendly,  social  people,  who  knew  no  good  reason  why 
they  should  not  be  on  terms  of  equality  with  the  little  Hdy 
of  Rose  Hill ;  and  one  afternoon,  about  a  week  after  her 
arrival  at  Dunwood,  she  was  told  that  some  ladies  were 
waiting  for  her  in  the  parlor. 

"  Dear   me  I   Sophy,"   said   she,  while   a  ft  own  for   an 


MR.   AND    MRS.   HASTINGS.  43 

instant  clouded  her  pretty  face,  "  tell  them  I'm  not  at 
home." 

"  But  I  just  told  them  you  were,"  answered  Sophy,  add 
ing  that  "  the  ladies  were  well-dressed  and  fine  looking," 
and  suggesting  that  her  young  mistress  should  wear  down 
something  more  appropriate  than  the  soiled  white  muslin 
wrapper  in  which  she  had  lounged  all  day,  because  "  it  was 
not  worth  her  while  to  dress,  when  there  was  no  one  but  her 
husband  to  see  her." 

This,  however,  Ella  refused  to  do.  "  It  was  good  enough 
for  country  folks,"  she  said,  as  she  rather  reluctantly 
descended  to  the  parlor,  where  her  first  glance  at  her  visi 
tors  made  her  half  regret  that  she  had  not  followed  Sophy's 
advice.  Mrs.  Judge  Howell  and  her  daughter-in-law  were 
refined,  cultivated  women,  and  ere  Ella  had  conversed  with 
them  five  minutes,  she  felt  that  if  there  was  between  them 
any  point  of  inferiority,  it  rested  with  herself,  and  not  with 
them.  They  had  travelled  much,  both  in  the  Old  and  New 
World  ;  and  though  their  home  was  in  Boston,  they  spent 
almost  every  summer  in  Dunwood,  which  Mrs.  Howell  pro 
nounced  a  most  delightful  village,  assuring  Ella  that  she 
could  not  well  avoid  being  happy  and  contented.  Very 
wondcringly  the  large  childish  blue  eyes  went  up  to  the  face 
of  Mrs.  Howell,  who,  interpreting  aright  their  expression, 
casually  remarked  that  when  she  was  young,  she  fell  into  the 
foolish  error  of  thinking  there  could  be  nobody  outside  the 
walls  of  a  city.  "  But  the  experience  of  sixty  years  has 
changed  my  mind  materially,"  said  she,  "  for  I  have  met 
quite  as  many  refined  and  cultivated  people  in  the  country 
as  in  the  city." 

This  was  a  new  idea  to  Ella,  and  the  next  visitors,  who 
came  in  just  after  Mrs.  Howell  left,  were  obliged  to  wait 
while  she  mado  quite  an  elaborate  toilet. 


46  DORA    DEANE. 

"  Oh,  Ella,  how  much  better  you  are  looking  than  JOH 
were  "aii  hour  or  two  since,"  exclaimed  Mr.  Hastings,  who 
entered  the  chamber  just  as  his  wife  was  leaving  it. 

"  There's  company  in  the  parlor,"  answered  Ella,  trip 
ping  lightly  away,  while  her  husband  walked  on  into  the 
dressing-room,  where  he  stepped  first  over  a  pair  of  slippers, 
then  over  a  muslin  wrapper,  and  next  over  a  towel,  which 
Ella  in  her  haste  had  left  upon  the  floor,  her  usual  place  foi 
everything. 

This  time  the  visitors  proved  to  be  Eugenia  and  Alice, 
with  the  first  of  whom  the  impulsive  Ella  was  perfectly 
delighted,  she  was  so  refined,  so  genteel,  so  richly  dressed, 
and  assumed  withal  such  a  patronizing  air,  that  the  short 
sighted  Ella  felt  rather  overawed,  particularly  when  she 
spoke  of  her  "  Uncle  in  India,"  with  whom  she  was  "  such  a 
favorite."  During  their  stay,  servants  were  introduced  as  a 
topic  of  conversation,  and  on  that  subject  Eugenia  was 
quite  as  much  at  home  as  Mrs.  Hastings,  descanting  at 
large  upon  the  many  annoyances  one  was  compelled  to 
endure,  both  from  the  "  ignorance  and  impertinence  of  hired 
help."  Once  or  twice,  too,  the  words  "  my  waiting-maid  " 
escaped  her  lips,  and  when  at  last  she  took  her  leave,  she 
had  the  satisfaction  of  knowing  that  Mrs.  Hastings  was  duly 
impi'essed  with  a  sense  of  her  importance. 

"  Such  charming  people  I  never  expected  to  find  in  the 
country,  and  so  elegantly  dressed  too,"  thought  Ella,  as 
rrom  her  window  she  watched  them  walking  slowly  down 
the  long  avenue.  "  That  silk  of  Miss  Eugenia's  could  net 
have  cost  less  than  two  dollars  a  yard,  and  her  hands,  too, 
were  as  soft  and  white  as  mine.  They  must  be  wealthy — . 
those  Deanes  :  I  wonder  if  they  ever  give  any  parties." 

And  then,  as  she  remembered  sundry  gossamer  fabrici 
which  were  dignified  by  the  title  of  party  dresses,  and 


MR.   AND    MRS.   HASTINGS.  41 

which,  with  many  tears  she  had  folded  away  as  something 
she  should  never  need  in  the  country,  she  exclaimed  aloud, 
"  Why,  can't  I  have  a  party  here  as  well  as  at  home  ? 
The  houss  is  a  great  deal  larger  than  the  long  narrow  thing 
on  which  mamma  prides  herself  so  much.  And  then  it  will 
be  such  fun  to  show  off  before  the  country  people,  who, 
of  course,  are  not  all  as  refined  as  the  Deanes.  I'll  speak  to 
Howard  about  it  immediately." 

"  Speak  to  me  about  what  ?"  asked  Mr,  Hastings,  who  had 
entered  the  parlor  in  time  to  hear  the  last  words  of  his  wife. 

Very  briefly  Ella  stated  to  him  her  plan  of  giving  a  large 
party  as  soon  as  a  sufficient  number  of  the  village  people 
had  called. 

"  You  know  you  wish  me  to  be  sociable  with  them,"  she 
continued,  as  she  saw  the  slightly  comical  expression  of  her 
husband's  face  ;  "  and  how  can  I  do  it  better  than  by 
inviting  them  to  my  house  ?" 

"  I  am  perfectly  willing  for  the  party,"  answered  Mr. 
Hastings,  "  but  I  do  rather  wonder  what  has  so  soon 
changed  your  mind." 

"  Oh,  nothing  much,"  returned  Ella,  "  only  the  people 
don't  seem  half  as  vulgar  as  mamma  said  they  would.  I 
wish  you  could  see  Eugenia  Deane.  She's  perfectly  mag 
nificent — wears  a  diamond  ring,  Valenciennes  lace,, and  all 
ihat.  Her  mother  is  very  wealthy,  isn't  she  ?" 

"I  have  never  supposed  so — if  you  mean  the  widow 
Deaue,  who  lives  at  the  place  called  '  Locust  Grove,' " 
answered  Mr.  Hastings  ;  and  Ella  continued,  "  Yes,  she 
is,  I  am  sure,  from  the  way  Eugenia  talked.  They  keep 
servants,  I  know,  for  she  spoke  of  a  waiting-maid.  Then, 
too,  they  have  an  old  bachelor  uncle  in  India,  with  a  mil 
lion  or  more,  and  these  two  young  ladies  will  undoubtedly 
inherit  it  all  at  his  death." 


«  DORA    DEANE. 

"  Miss  Deane  mast  have  been  very  communicative,"  said 
Mr.  Hastings,  who  understood  the  world  much  better  than 
bis  wife,  and  who  readily  guessed  that  Miss  Eugenia  had 
passed  herself  off  for  quite  as  much  as  she  was. 

41  It  was  perfectly  natural  for  her  to  tell  me  what  she 
did,"  answered  Ella,  "  and  I  like  her  so  much  !  I  mean 
to  drive  over  there  soon,  and  take  her  out  riding." 

Here  the  conversation  was  interrupted  by  the  ringing 
of  the  door-bell,  and  it  was  not  again  resumed  until  the 
Monday  morning  following,  when,  at  the  breakfast-table 
Ella  asked  for  the  carriage  to  be  sent  round,  as  "  she  was 
going  to  call  at  Mrs.  Deane's,  and  take  the  young  ladies  to 
ride." 

"  But  it  is  washing-day,"  suggested  Mr.  Hastings,  wish 
ing  to  tease  his  wife.  "  And  nothing,"  I  am  told,  "  morti 
fies  a  woman  more  than  to  be  caught  with  her  hair  in 
papers,  and  her  arms  in  the  suds.  So,  if  you  value  your 
friend  Eugenia's  feelings,  you  had  better  wait  until  to-mor 
row." 

"  Suds,  Howard  !  What  do  you  mean  ?"  asked  the 
indignant  Ella.  "  Eugenia  Deane's  hands  never  saw  a 
wash-tub  !  Why,  they  are  almost  as  white  as  mine."  And 
the  little  lady  glanced  rather  admiringly  at  the  small  snowy 
fingers,  which  handled  so  gracefully  the  heavy  knife  and 
fork  of  silver. 

"  You  have  my  permission  to  go,"  said  Mr.  Hastings, 
"  but  I  am  inclined  to  think  you'll  have  to  wait  a  long  time 
for  your  friends  to  make  their  appearance." 

Mentally  resolving  not  to  tell  him  if  she  did,  Ella  ran  up 
to  h'jr  room,  where,  leaving  her  morning  dress  in  the  middle 
of  the  floor,  and  donning  a  handsome  plaid  silk,  she  de 
scended  again  to  the  parlor,  and  suggested  to  her  husband 
the  propriety  of  bringing  the  young  ladies  home  with  her 


MR.    AND    MRS.   HASTINGS.  4« 

to  dinner,  alleging,  as  one  reason,  that  "  there  was  no  use 
of  having  a  silver  dining  set  and  nice  things,  unless  there 
was  somebody  to  see  them." 

"  And  am  not  /  somebody  ?"  asked  Mr.  Hastings,  playfully 
vindiug  his  arm  around  the  little  creature,  who  answered, 
"  Why,  yes — but  mamma  never  thought  it  worth  her  while 
always  to  have  the  best  things  and  fix  up  when  there  was  no 
one  to  dinner  but  us  and  father  ;  and  I  don't  think  I  need  to 
be  so  particular  as  wl*en  I  was  Ella  Grey  and  you  were 
Mr.  Hastings,  for  now  I  am  your  wife,  and  you  arc  " 

Here  she  paused,  while  she  stooped  down  to  caress  a  huge 
Newfoundland  dog,  which  came  bounding  in.  Then,  re 
membering  she  had  not  finished  her  sentence,  she  added, 
after  a  moment,  "And  you  are  only  Hcncard!" 

Silenced,  if  not  convinced,  Mr.  Hastings  walked  away, 
wondering  if  every  husband,  at  the  expiration  of  fifteen 
months,  reached  the  enviable  position  of  being  "  only  How 
ard  I"  Half  an  hour  later,  and  Ella  Hastings,  having  left 
orders  with  Mrs.  Leah  for  a  "  company  dinner,"  was  riding 
down  the  shaded  avenue  into  the  highway,  where  she  bade 
the  coachman  drive  in  the  direction  of  Locust  Grove 


10  DORA    DKAN1. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

THE   VISIT. 

THE  plain  though  comfortable  breakfast  of  dry  toast, 
baked  potatoes  and  black  tea  was  over.  This  morning  it 
had  been  eaten  from  the  kitchen  table  ;  for,  as  Mr.  Hastings 
had  surmised,  it  was  washing  day,  and  on  such  occasions, 
wishing  to  save  work,  Mrs.  Deane  would  not  suffer  the 
dining-room  to  be  occupied.  To  this  arrangement  the  proud 
Eugenia  submitted  the  more  readily,  as  she  knew  that  at 
this  hour  they  were  not  liable  to  calls  ;  so,  she  who  had 
talked  of  her  waiting-maid  and  wealthy  uncle  to  Mrs.  Hast 
ings,  sat  down  to  breakfast  with  her  waiting-maid,  eating 
her  potatoes  with  a  knife  and  cooling  her  tea  in  her  saucer  ; 
two  points  which  in  the  parlor  she  loudly  denounced  as  posi 
tive  marks  of  ill  breeding,  but  which  in  the  kitchen,  where 
there  was  no  one  to  see  her,  she  found  vastly  convenient  ! 
Piles  of  soiled  clothes  were  scattered  over  the  floor,  and 
from  a  tub  standing  near,  a  volume  of  steam  was  rising, 
almost  hiding  from  view  the  form  of  Dora  Deane,  whose 
round  red  arms  were  diving  into  the  suds,  while  she  to  her 
self  was  softly  repeating  the  lesson  in  History,  that  day  to 
be  recited  by  her  class,  and  which  she  had  learned  the 
Saturday  night  previous,  well  knowing  that  Monday's  duties 
would  keep  her  from  school  the  entire  day. 

In  the  chamber  above — her  long,  straight  hair  plaited  up 
in  braids,  so  as  to  give  it  the  wavy  appearance  she  had  so 


THE    VISIT,  61 

much  admired  in  Mrs.  Hastings — her  head  enveloped  in  a 
black  silk  apron  and  her  hands  incased  in  buckskin  gloves, 
was  Eugenia,  setting  her  room  to  rights,  and  complaining 
with  every  breath  of  her  hard  lot,  in  being  thus  obliged  to 
exert  herself  on  hot  summer  mornings. 

"  Don't  you  wish  you  were  rich  as  Mrs.  Hastings,"  asked 
Alice,  who  chanced  to  come  in. 

"  That  I  do,"  returned  Eugenia.  "  I  have  been  uncom 
fortable  and  discontented  ever  since  I  called  upon  her,  for  I 
can't  see  why  there  should  be  such  a  difference.  She  has 
all  the  money,  servants  and  dresses  which  she  wants,  besidea 
the  handsomest  and  most  elegant  man  for  a  husband  ;  while 
I,  Eugenia  Deane,  who  am  ten  times  smarter  than  she,  and 
could  appreciate  these  things  so  much  better,  am  obliged  to 
make  all  sorts  of  shifts,  just  to  keep  up  appearances.  But 
didn't  I  impress  her  with  a  sense  of  my  greatness !"  she  added, 
after  a  pause,  and  Alice  rejoined,  "  Particularly  when  you 
talked  of  your  waiting-maid !  I  don't  see,  Eugenia,  how  you 
dare  do  such  things,  for  of  course  Mrs.  Hastings  will  event 
ually  know  that  you  mean  Dora." 

"  I'm  not  so  sure  of  that,"  returned  Eugenia  ;  "  and  even 
if  she  does,  I  fancy  I  have  tact  enough  to  smooth  it  over 
with  her,  for  she  is  not  very  deep." 

For  a  moment  Alice  regarded  her  sister  intently,  and 
then  said,  "  I  wonder  from  whom  you  take  your  character 
for  deception." 

"  I've  dwelt  upon  that  subject  many  a  time  myself,"  au- 
swcred  Eugenia,  "  and  I  have  at  last  come  to  the  conclusion 
that  as  father  was  not  famous  for  sense  of  any  kind,  1  must 
be  a  second  and  revised  edition  of  mother — but  hark,  clotrt 
you  hear  the  roll  of  wheels  ?"  And  springing  up,  she  reached 
the  window  just  as  Mrs.  Hastings  alighted  from  her  carriage, 
which  stood  before  the  gate. 


62  DORA    DEANE. 

"  Great  goodness  !"  she  exclaimed,  "  there's  M  s.  Hastings 
coming  here  to  call — and  /  in  this  predicament.  What  shall 
I  do  ?" 

"  Let  her  wait,  of  course,  until  we  change  our  dresses," 
answered  Alice,  and  rushing  down  the  stairs,  Eugenia  bado 
Dora  "  show  the  lady  into  the  parlor,"  addi.ig,  "and  if  she 
asks  for  me,  say  I  am  suffering  from  a  severe  headache,  but 
you  presume  I  will  see  her." 

Perfectly  delighted  at  the  idea  of  standing  face  to  face 
with  a  person  of  whom  she  had  heard  so  much,  Dora  re 
moved  her  high-necked  apron,  and  throwing  it  across  the 
tub  so  that  the  sleeves  trailed  upon  the  floor,  was  hurrying 
away,  when  her  foot  becoming  accidentally  entangled  in  the 
apron,  she  fell  headlong  to  the  floor,  bringing  with  her  tub, 
suds,  clothes  and  all  !  To  present  herself  in  this  drenched 
condition  was  impossible,  and  in  a  perfect  tremor  lest  Mrs. 
Hastings  should  go  away,  Eugenia  vibrated,  brush  in  hand, 
between  her  own  chamber  and  the  head  of  the  kitchen 
stairs,  scolding  Dora  unmercifully  in  the  one  place,  and  pull 
ing  at  the  long  braids  of  her  hair  in  the  other. 

At  last,  just  as  Mrs.  Hastings  was  about  despairing  of 
being  heard,  and  was  beginning  to  think  that  possibly  her 
husband  might  be  right  and  Eugenia  in  the  suds  after  all,  a 
chubby,  brown-faced  girl  appeared,  and  after  giving  her  a 
searching,  curious  glance,  showed  her  into  the  parlor. 

"  Are  the  young  ladies  at  home  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Hastings  ; 
and  Dora,  who  had  never  told  a  falsehood  in  her  life,  and 
had  no  intention  of  doing  so  now,  replied  that  they  were, 
and  would  soon  be  down  ;  after  which,  with  a  low  courtesy 
she  went  back  to  the  scene  of  her  late  disaster,  while  Mr%. 
Hastings  busied  herself  awhile  by  looking  around  the  room, 
which,  though  small,  was  very  handsomely  furnished. 

At  last,  beginning  to  grow  sleepy,  she  took  up  a  book, 


THE   VISIT.  63 

and  succeeded  in  interesting  herself  so  far  as  to  nod  quite 
approvingly,  when  the  rustle  of  female  garments  aroused 
her,  and  in  a  moment  Eugenia  and  Alice  swept  into  the 
room.  Both  were  tastefully  dressed,  while  about  Eugenia 
there  was  an  air  of  languor  befitting  the  severe  lieadache,  of 
which  Mrs.  Hastings  was  surprised  to  hear. 

"  Then  that  girl  didn't  tell  you  as  I  bade  her  to  do.''  said 
Eugenia;  adding,  that  "  Mrs.  Hastings  must  have  thought 
her  very  rude  to  keep  her  so  long  waiting." 

But  Mrs.  Hastings  was  too  good-natured  lo  think  any- 
tiling,  and,  after  a  few  common-place  remarks,  she  told  the 
object  of  her  call,  saying,  that  "  the  fre&h  air  would,  un 
doubtedly,  do  Eugenia  good."  In  this  opinion  the  young 
lady  fully  concurred,  and,  half  an  hour  later,  she  was  slowly 
riding  through  the  principal  streets  of  Dunwood,  wondering 
if  her  acquaintances  did  not  envy  her  for  being  on  such 
terms  of  intimacy  with  the  fashionable  Mrs.  Hastings.  Very 
politely  were  the  young  ladies  received  by  Mr.  Hastings,  on 
their  arrival  at  Rose  Hill,  and  throughout  the  entire  day 
their  admiration,  both  for  the  place  and  its  owner,  increased, 
though  Eugenia  could  not  conceal  from  herself  the  fact,  that 
she  stood  very  much  in  fear  of  the  latter,  whose  keen  black 
eyes  seemed  to  read  her  very  thoughts.  How  such  a  man 
came  to  marry  Ella  Grey,  was  to  her  a  puzzle;  and  if  occa 
sionally  she  harbored  the  thought  that  Eugenia  Deane  was 
far  better  suited  to  be  the  mistress  of  Howard  Hastings's 
home  than  the  childish  creature  he  had  chosen,  she  was  only 
guilty  of  what  had,  in  a  similar  manner,  been  done  by  more 
than  one  New  York  belle.  Dinner  being  over,  Ella  led  the 
way  to  an  upper  balcony,  which  opened  from  her  chamber, 
und  which  was  a  cool,  shaded  spot.  Scarcely  were  thej 
seated,  when  remembering  something  she  had  left  in  the 
parlor,  she  went  back  for  it,  and  in  returning,  she  ran  up 


64  DORA    DEANE. 

the  stairs  so  swiftly  that  a  sudden  dizziness  came  over  her, 
and  with  a  low  cry  she  fell  half  fainting  into  the  arms  ol 
her  husband,  who  bent  tenderly  over  her,  while  Eugenia 
made  many  anxious  inquiries  as  to  what  was  the  matter, 
and  if  she  were  often  thus  affected. 

"  Yes,  often,"  answered  Ella,  who  began  to  revive;  then, 
as  the  perspiration  gathered  thickly  about  the  white  lips, 
she  pressed  her  blue-veined  hand  upon  her  side,  and  cried, 
"  The  pain — the  pain  1  It  has  come  again.  Country  air 
won't  do  me  any  good.  I  shall  die  of  consumption,  just  as 
mother  said."  And  as  if  she  saw  indeed  the  little  grave, 
on  which  the  next  summer's  sun  would  shine,  she  hid  her 
face  in  her  husband's  bosom,  and  sobbed  aloud.  Instantly 
a  dark  thought  flashed  upon  Eugenia — a  thought  which 
even  she  would  not  harbor,  and  casting  it  aside,  she  drew 
nearer  to  the  weeping  Ella,  striving  by  an  increased  tender 
ness  of  manner  to  atone  for  having  dared  to  think  of  a  time 
when  the  little  willow  chair  on  the  balcony  would  be  empty, 
and  Howard  Hastings  free.  Soon  rallying,  Ella  feigned  to 
smile  at  her  discomposure,  saying  that  "  consumption  had 
been  preached  to  her  so  much  that  she  always  felt  frightened 
at  the  slightest  pain  in  her  side,"  thoughtlessly  adding,  as 
she  glanced  at  her  husband,  "  I  wonder  if  Howard  would 
miss  me  any,  were  I  really  to  die." 

A  dark  shadow  settled  upon  Mr.  Hastings's  face,  but  he 
made  no  reply;  and  Eugenia,  who  was  watching  him,  fan 
cied  she  could  read  his  thoughts;  but  when  they  at  last 
started  for  home,  and  she  saw  how  tenderly  he  wrapped  a 
warm  shawl  around  his  delicate  young  wife,  who  insisted 
upon  going  with  them,  she  felt  that  however  frivolous  and 
uncompanionable  Ella  might  be,  she  was  Howard  Hastings'a 
wife,  and  as  such,  he  would  love  and  cherish  her  to  th* 
last. 


THE   VISIT.  n 

By  her  window  in  the  attic  sat  Dora  Deane,  poring  over 
to-morrow's  lessons;  but  as  the  silvery  voice  of  Ella  fell  upon 
her  ear,  she  arose,  and  going  to  her  cousin's  chamber,  looked 
out  upon  the  party  as  they  drew  near  the  gate. 

"  How  beautiful  she  is  1"  she  whispered  to  herself,  as, 
dropping  her  shawl,  and  flinging  back  her  golden  curls,  Ella 
sprang  up  to  reach  a  branch  of  locust  blossoms,  which  grew 
above  her  head. 

Then,  as  she  saw  how  carefully  Mr.  Hastings  replaced 
the  shawl,  drawing  his  wife's  arm  within  his  own,  she  stolo 
back  to  her  room,  and,  resuming  her  seat  by  the  window, 
dreamed,  as  maidens  of  thirteen  will,  of  a  time  away  in  the 
future,  when  she,  too,  might  perhaps  be  loved  even  as  wai 
the  gentle  Ella  Hastings. 


««  DORA    DEANE. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

THE    PARTV. 

ONE  pleasant  July  morning,  the  people  of  Duuwood  were 
electrified  by  the  news  that  on  Thursday  evening,  Mrs 
Howard  Hastings  would  be  at  home  to  between  one  and 
two  hundred  of  her  friends.  Among  the  first  invited  was 
Eugenia,  who  had  been  Mrs.  Hastings's  chief  adviser,  kindly 
enlightening  her  as  to  the  somebodies  and  nobodies  of  the  town, 
and  rendering  herself  so  generally  useful,  that,  in  a  fit  of 
gratitude,  Mrs.  Hastings  had  promised  her  her  brother  Ste 
phen,  a  fast  young  man,  who  was  expected  to  be  present  at 
the  party.  To  appear  well  in  his  eyes  was,  therefore,  Euge 
nia's  ambition  ;  and  the  time  which  was  not  spent  in  giving 
directions  at  Rose  Hill,  was  occupied  at  home  in  scolding, 
because  her  mother  would  not  devise  a  way  by  which  she 
could  obtain  a  new  pink  satin  dress,  with  lace  overskirt,  and 
flowers  to  match. 

It  was  in  vain  that  Mrs.  Deaue  sought  to  convince  her 
daughter  how  impossible  it  was  to  raise  the  necessary  funds. 
Eugenia  was  determined  ;  and  at  last,  by  dint  of  secretly 
selling  a  half-worn  dress  to  one  Irish  girl,  a  last  year's  bon 
net  to  another,  and  a  brochd  shawl  to  another,  she  succeeded 
in  obtaining  enough  for  the  desired  purchase,  lacking  five 
dollars,  and  this  last  it  seemed  impossible  to  procure.  But 
Eugenia  never  despaired;  and  a  paragraph  read  one  evening 
.'n  a  city  paper,  suggested  to  her  a  plan  which  she  resolved 
to  execute  immediately. 


THE    PARTY.  61 

It  was  nearly  dark  ;  her  mother  and  sisters  were  in  the 
village  ;  Dora  was  gone  on  an  errand,  and  she  was  alone. 
Half  reluctantly,  she  opened  the  stair  door  which  led  to 
Dora's  room,  the  low  room  in  the  attic.  Up  the  steep  stair 
case,  and  through  the  narrow  hall  she  went,  treading  softly, 
and  holding  her  breath,  as  if  she  feared  lest  the  dead,  from 
her  far-off  grave  in  the  great  city,  should  hear  her  noiseless 
footfall,  and  come  forth  to  prevent  the  wrong  she  meditated. 
But  no,  Fanny  Deane  slept  calmly  in  her  coffin,  and  Eugenia 
kept  on  her  way  unmolested,  until  the  chamber  was  reached. 
Then,  indeed,  she  hesitated,  for  there  was,  to  her,  something 
terrifying  in  the  darkness  which  had  gathered  in  the  cor 
ners  of  the  room,  and  settled  like  a  pall  upon  the  old  green 
trunk.  To  reach  that  and  secure  the  treasure,  it  contained, 
woold  have  been  the  work  of  a  moment ;  but,  wholly  pow 
erless  to  advance,  Eugenia  stood  still,  while  the  cold  perspi 
ration  started  from  every  pore. 

"  I  can  do  anything  but  that"  she  said,  at  last,  and,  as  if 
the  words  had  given  her  strength  to  move,  she  turned  back, 
gliding  again  through  the  narrow  hall,  and  down  the  steep 
stairway,  out  into  the  open  air  ;  and  when,  that  night,  as 
she  often  did,  Dora  looked  for  her  mother's  beautiful  hair, 
it  lay  in  its  accustomed  place,  unruffled  and  unharmed  ;  and 
the  orphan  child,  as  she  pressed  it  to  her  lips,  dreamed  not 
of  the  danger  which  had  threatened  it,  or  of  the  snare  about 
to  be  laid  for  herself  by  Eugenia,  who  could  not  yet  give  up 
the  coveted  dress. 

Next  morning,  as  Dora  stood  before  the  mirror,  arrang 
ing  her  long,  luxuriant  hair,  which  she  usually  wore  in 
braids,  hanging  down  her  back,  Eugenia  came  up,  and  with 
mi  unusual  degree  of  kindness  in  her  manner,  offered  to  fix 
it  for  her,  commenting  the  while  on  the  exceeding  beauty  of 
the  rich  auburu  tresses,  and  saying,  that  if  she  were  iu 

s* 


68  DORA    DEANE. 

Dora's  place  she  would  have  it  cut  off,  as  by  the  means  she 
would,  when  grown  up,  have  much  haudsoiner  hair  than  it 
it  were  suffered  to  remain  long.  Dora  remembered  having 
heard  her  mother  say  the  same;  but  she  had  a  pride  in  her 
hair,  which  was  longer  and  thicker  than  any  of  her  compa 
nions'  ;  so  she  said  nothing  until  Eugenia,  who,  to  serve  her 
own  purpose,  would  not  hesitate  to  tell  a  falsehood,  and  who 
knew  how  much  Dora  admired  Mrs.  Hastings,  spoke  of  that 
lady's  beautiful  curls,  saying  they  were  all  the  result  of  her 
having  worn  her  hair  quite  short  until  she  was  sixteen  years 
of  age.  Then,  indeed,  Dora  wavered.  She  had  recently 
suffered  much  from  the  headache,  too,  and  it  might  relieve 
that  ;  so  that  when  Eugenia  offered  her  a  coral  bracelet  in 
exchange  for  her  hair,  she  consented,  and  Alice  entered  the 
room  just  as  the  last  shining  braid  dropped  upon  the  floor. 

11  What  upon  earth  1"  she  exclaimed,  stopping  short,  and 
then  bursting  into  a  loud  laugh  at  the  comical  appear 
ance  which  Dora  presented  ;  for  Eugenia  had  cut  close  to 
the  head,  leaving  the  hair  so  uneven  that  shingling  seemed 
the  only  alternative,  and  to  this  poor  Dora  finally  submitted. 
When  at  last  the  performance  was  ended,  and  she  glanced 
at  herself  in  the  mirror,  she  burst  into  a  paroxysm  of  tears, 
while  Alice  tried  to  soothe  her  by  saying  that  it  really  would 
eventually  benefit  her  hair,  and  that  she  would  not  always 
look  so  strangely. 

But  Dora,  who  began  to  suspect  that  it  was  pure  self 
ishness  on  Eugenia's  part,  which  had  prompted  the  act, 
felt  keenly  the  injustice  done  her,  and  refused  to  be  com 
forted,  keeping  her  room  the  entire  day,  and  weeping  until 
her  eyelids  were  nearly  blistered.  Meantime,  Eugenia  had 
hurried  off  to  the  city  with  her  ill-gotten  treasure,  on  which 
the  miserly  old  Jew,  to  whom  it  was  offered,  looked  with 
eager,  longing  eyes,  taking  care,  however,  to  depreciate  it* 


THE    PARTY.  59 

tralue,  lest  his  customer  should  expect  too  much.  But  Euge 
nia  was  fully  his  equal  in  management,  and  when  at  night 
she  returned  home,  she  was  in  possession  of  the  satin,  the 
lace,  and  the  flowers,  together  with  several  other  articles  of 
finery.  • 

The  next  day  was  the  party,  and  as  Dora,  besides  being 
exceedingly  tasteful,  was  also  neat,  and  handy  with  her 
needle,  she  was  kept  from  school,  stitching  the  livelong  day 
upon  the  dainty  fabric,  a  portion  of  which  had  been  pur 
;hased  with  her  hair !  Occasionally,  as  Eugenia  glanced  at 
the  swollen  eyelids  and  shorn  head,  bending  so  uncomplain 
ingly  over  the  cloud  of  lace,  her  conscience  smote  her  for 
what  she  had  done  ;  but  one  thought  of  Stephen  Grey,  and 
the  impression  she  should  make  on  him,  dissipated  all  such 
regrets  ;  and  when  at  length  the  hour  for  making  her  toilet 
arrived,  her  jaded  cousin  was  literally  made  to  perform  all 
the  offices  of  a  waiting-maid.  Three  times  was  the  tired 
little  girl  sent  down  to  the  village  in  quest  of  something 
which  the  capricious  Eugenia  must  have,  and  which,  when 
brought,  was  not  "  the  thing  at  all,"  and  must  be  exchanged. 
Up  the  stairs  and  down  the  stairs  she  went,  bringing  pins  to 
Alice  and  powder  to  Eugenia,  enacting,  in  short,  the  part  of 
a  second  Cinderella,  except  that  in  her  case  no  kind  old 
godmother  with  her  potent  wand  appeared  to  her  relief ! 

They  were  dressed  at  last,  and  very  beautifully  Eugenia 
looked  in  the  pink  satin  and  flowing  lace,  which  harmonized 
BO  well  with  her  complexion,  and  which  had  been  bought 
with  the  united  proceeds  of  a  velvet  bonnet,  a  delaine  dress, 
a  brochd  shawl,  and  Bora's  hair  1 

"  Why  don't  you  compliment  me  ?"  she  said  to  the  weary 
child,  who,  sick  with  yesterday's  weeping,  and  the  close  con 
finement  of  to-day,  had  laid  her  aching  head  upon  the  arm 
»f  the  lounge. 


30  DORA    DEANE. 

Slowly  unclosing  her  eyes,  and  fixing  them  upon  he* 
cousin,  Dora  answered — 

"  You  do  look  beautifully.  No  one  will  excel  yon,  I  ana 
sure,  unless  it  be  Mrs.  Hastings.  I  wish  I  could  see  how 
she  will  dress."  • 

"  You  might  go  up  and  look  in  at  the  window  ;  or,  if  I'd 
thought  of  it,  I  could  have  secured  you  the  office  of  ioor- 
waiter,"  said  the  thoughtless  Eugenia,  adding,  as  she  held 
out  her  shawl  for  Dora  to  throw  around  her,  "  Don't  you 
wish  you  could  attend  a  party  at  Rose  Hill  ?" 

There  was  a  sneer  accompanying  this  question,  which 
Dora  felt  keenly.  Her  little  swelling  heart  was  already  full, 
and,  with  quivering  lips  and  gushing  tears,  she  answered, 
somewhat  bitterly — 

"  I  never  expect  to  be  anybody,  or  go  anywhere  ;"  then, 
as  her  services  were  no  longer  needed,  she  ran  away  to  her 
humble  room,  where  from  her  window  she  watched  the  many 
brilliant  lights  which  shone  from  Eose  Hill,  and  caught 
occasional  glimpses  of  the  airy  forms  winch  flitted  before 
the  open  doors  and  windows.  Once  she  was  sure  she  saw 
Eugenia  upon  the  balcony,  and  then,  as  a  sense  of  the  dif 
ference  between  herself  and  her  cousins  came  over  her,  she 
laid  her  down  upon  the  old  green  trunk,  and  covering  her 
face  with  her  hands,  cried  out,  "  Nobody  cares  for  me,  or 
loves  me  either.  I  wish  I  had  died  that  winter  night.  Oh 
mother  !  come  to  me,  I  am  so  lonely  and  so  sad." 

Softly,  as  if  it  were  indeed  the  rustle  of  an  angel's  wings, 
came  the  evening  air,  through  the  open  casement,  cooling 
the  feverish  brow  and  drying  the  tears  of  the  orphan  girl, 
who  grew  strangely  calm  ;  and  when  at  last  the  moon 
looked  in  upon  her,  she  was  sleeping  quietly,  with  a  placid 
smile  upon  her  lips.  Years  after,  and  Dora  Deane  remem« 
bored  that  summer  night,  when,  on  the  hard  green  trunk, 


THE    TARTY.  6} 

she  slept  so  soundly  as  not  to  hear  the  angry  voi.e  of  Euge 
nia,  who  came  home  sadly  out  of  humor  with  herself  and 
the  world  at  large. 

At  breakfast,  next  morning,  she  was  hardly  on  speaking 
terms  with  her  sister,  while  Stephen  Grey  was  pronounced  "  a 
perfect  bore — a  baboon,  with  more  hair  than  brains." 

"And  to  that  I  should  not  suppose  you  would  object," 
said  Alice,  mischievously.  "  You  might  find  it  useful  in  case 
of  an  emergency." 

To  this  there  was  no  reply,  save  an  angry  flash  of  the 
black  eyes,  which,  it  seems,  had  failed  to  interest  Stephen 
Grey,  who  was  far  better  pleased  with  the  unassuming 
Alice,  and  who  had  paid  the  haughty  Eugenia  no  attention 
whatever,  except,  indeed,  to  plant  his  patent  leather  boot 
upon  one  of  her  lace  flounces,  tearing  it  half  off,  and  leaving 
a  sad  rent,  which  could  not  well  be  mended.  This,  then, 
was  the  cause  of  her  wrath,  which  continued  for  some  time; 
when  really  wishing  to  talk  over  the  events  of  the  evening, 
she  became  a  little  more  gracious,  and  asked  Alice  how  she 
liked  Mrs.  Elliott,  who  had  unexpectedly  arrived  from  New 
York. 

"  I  was  delighted  with  her,"  returned  Alice;  "  she  was 
such  a  perfect  lady.  And  hadn't  she  magnificent  hair  ! 
Just  the  color  of  Dora's,"  she  added,  glancing  at  the  little 
cropped  head,  which  had  -been  so  suddenly  divested  of  its 
beauty. 

"  It  wasn't  all  hers,  though,"  answered  Eugenia,  who  in 
variably  saw  and  spoke  of  every  defect.  "  I  heard  her  tell 
*ng  Ella  that  she  bought  a  braid  in  Rochester  as  she  came 
np.  But  what  ails  you  ?"  she  continued,  speaking  now  to 
Dora,  whose  eyes  sparkled  with  some  unustal  excitement, 
and  who  replied — 

"  You  said  Mrs.  Elliott,  from  New  York.     A.nd  that  was 


61  DORA    DEANE. 

thb  name  of  the  lady  who  was  so  kind  to  me.  Oh,  if  I  onlj 
thought  it  were  she,  I'd  " 

"  Make  yourself  ridiculous,  I  dare  say,"  interrupted  Eu 
genia,  adding,  that  "  there  was  more  than  one  Mrs.  Elliott 
in  the  world,  and  she'd  no  idea  that  so  elegant  a  lady  as 
Mr.  Hastings's  sister  ever  troubled  herself  to  look  after 
folks  in  such  a  miserable  old  hovel  as  the  one  where  Dora 
had  lived." 

This,  however,  did  not  satisfy  the  child,  who,  during  the 
week  that  Mrs.  Elliott  remained  in  the  neighborhood,  cast 
many  longing  glances  in  the  direction  of  Rose  Hill,  gazing 
oft  with  tearful  eyes  upon  a  female  figure  which  sometimes 
walked  upon  the  balcony,  and  which,  perhaps,  was  her 
benefactress.  One  night  it  was  told  at  Locust  Grove  that 
Mrs.  Elliott  had  gone,  and  then,  with  a  feeling  of  desolation 
for  which  she  could  not  account,  Dora  again  laid  her  face 
on  the  old  green  trunk  and  wept. 

Poor  Dora  Deane  !  The  path  she  trod  was  dark,  indeed, 
but  there  was  light  ahead,  and  eveu  now  it  was  1  reakiug 
upon  her,  though  she  knew  it  not 


IKHiA    AT    ilOBE    HILL. 


DORA     AT     ROSE     HILL 

was  over.  The  glorious  September  days  were 
gone.  The  hazy  October  had  passed  away,  and  the  autumn 
winds  had  swept  the  withered  leaves  from  the  tall  trees 
which  grew  around  Rose  Hill;  when  one  cold,  rainy  Novem 
ber  morning,  a  messenger  was  sent  to  Mrs.  Deane,  saying 
that  Mrs.  Hastings  was*  sick,  and  wished  to  see  her. 

"  Mrs.  Hastings  sent  for  mother  I  How  funny  1  There 
must  be  some  mistake,"  said  Eugenia,  putting  her  head  in 
at  the  door.  "  Are  you  sure  it  was  mother  ?" 

"  Yes,  quite  sure,"  answered  the  man.  "  Mrs.  Hastings 
thought  she  would  know  what  to  do  for  the  baby,  which 
was  born  yesterday,  and  is  a  puny  little  thing." 

This  silenced  Eugenia,  who  waited  impatiently  until 
nightfall,  when  her  mother  returned  with  a  sad  account  of 
affairs  at  Rose  Hill.  Mrs.  Hastings  was  sick  and  nervous, 
Mrs.  Leah  was  lazy  and  cross,  the  servants  ignorant  aud 
impertinent,  the  house  was  in  disorder;  while  Mr.  Hastings, 
with  a  cloud  on  his  face,  ill  befitting  a  newly-made  father, 
stalked  up  aud  down  the  sick-room,  looking  in  vain  for  an 
empty  chair,  so  filled  were  they  with  blankets,  towels, 
baby's  dresses,  and  the  various  kinds  of  work  which  Ella 
Was  always  beginning  and  never  finishing. 

"Such  an  ignorant,  helpless  creature  T  never  saw,"  said 


fti  DORA    DEANE. 

Mrs.  Deanc.  "  Why,  she  don't  know  anything — and  such 
looking  rooms  !  I  don't  wonder  her  servants  give  her  so 
much  trouble;  but  my  heart  ached  for  him,  poor  man,  wheu 
I  saw  him  putting  away  the  things,  and  trying  to  make  the 
room  a  little  more  comfortable." 

It  was  even  as  Mrs.  Deaue  had  said.  Ella,  whose  favor 
ite  theory  was,  "  a  big  house,  a  lot  of  things,  and  chairs 
enough  to  put  them  in,"  was  wholly  unprepared  for  sickness, 
which  found  her  in  a  sad  condition.  To  be  sure  there  were 
quantities  of  French  embroidery,  thread  lace  and  fine  linen, 
while  the  bed,  on  which  she  lay,  cost  a  hundred  dollars,  and 
the  rosewood  crib  was  perfect  of  its  kind,  but  there  was  a 
great  lack  of  neatness  and  order;  and  as  day  after  day  Mr. 
Hastings  stood  with  folded  arms,  looking  first  from  one  win 
dow  and  then  from  the  other,  his  thoughts  were  far  from 
being  agreeable,  save  when  he  bent  over  the  cradle  of  his 
first-born,  and  then  there  broke  over  his  face  a  look  of  un 
utterable  tenderness,  which  was  succeeded  by  a  shade  of 
deep  anxiety  as  his  eye  rested  upon  his  frail  young  wife, 
whose  face  seemed  whiter  even  than  the  pillow  on  which  it 
lay. 

After  a  few  weeks,  during  which  time  Ella  had  gained  a 
little  strength  and  was  able  to  see  her  friends,  Eugenia 
came  regularly  to  Hose  Hill,  sitting  all  day  by  the  bedside 
of  the  invalid,  to  whom  she  sometimes  brought  a  glass  of 
water,  or  some  such  trivial  thing.  Occasionally,  too,  she 
would  look  to  see  if  the  baby  were  asleep,  pronouncing  it 
"  a  perfect  little  cherub,  just  like  its  mother  ;"  and  there 
her  services  ended,  for  it  never  occurred  to  her  that  she 
could  make  the  room  much  more  cheerful  by  picking  up 
and  putting  away  the  numerous  articles  which  lay  scattered 
around,  and  wlu'ch  were  a  great  annoyance  to  the  more 
orderly  Mr.  Hastings.  Once,  when  Ella,  as  usual,  waa 


DORA    AT    ROSE    HILL.  65 

expatiating  upon  her  goodness,  asking  her  husband  if  she 
were  not  the  best  girl  in  the  world,  and  saying  "they  must 
make  her  some  handsome  present  in  return  for  sill  she  had 
done,"  he  replied,  "  I  confess,  I  should  think  more  of  Miss 
Deane,  if  she  did  you  any  real  good,  or  rendered  you  any 
actual  service  ;  but,  as  far  as  I  can  discover,  she  merely  sits 
here  talking  to  you  until  you  are  wearied  out." 

"  Why,  what  would  you  have  her  do  ?"  asked  Ella,  her 
large  bine  eyes  growing  larger  and  bluer. 

"  I  hardly  know  myself,"  answered  Mr.  Hastings  ;  "  but 
it  seems  to  me  that  a  genuine  woman  could  not  sit  day 
after  day  in  such  a  disorderly  room  as  this." 

"Oh,  Howard  1"  exclaimed  Ella,  "you  surely  cannot 
expect  Eugenia  Deane  to  do  a  servant's  duty.  Why,  she 
has  been  as  delicately  brought  up  as  I,  and  knows  quite  as 
little  of  work." 

"  More  shame  for  her  if  this  is  true,"  answered  Mr.  Has 
tings  somewhat  bitterly,  and  Ella  continued,  "  You've  got 
such  queer  ideas,  Howard,  of  woman's  duties.  I  should 
suppose  you  would  have  learned,  ere  this,  that  few  ladies  are 
like  your  mother,  who,  though  a  blessed  good  soul,  has  the 
oddest  notions." 

"  But  they  make  a  man's  home  mighty  comfortable,  those 
odd  notions  of  mother's,"  said  Mr.  Hastings  ;  then,  knowing 
how  useless  it  would  be  to  argue  the  point  he  was  abouf 
changing  the  subject,  when  the  new  nurse  who  had  beep 
there  but  a  few  days  (the  first  one  having  quarrelled  with 
Mrs.  Leah,  and  gone  home),  came  in  and  announced  her 
iiilention  of  leaving  also,  saying,  "she  would  not  live  in  the 
same  house  with  old  mother  Leah  !" 

It  was  in  vain  that  Mr.  Hastings  tried  to  soothe  the 
angry  girl — she  was  determined,  and  for  a  second  time  was 
Klla  left  alone. 


C«  DORA    DEANE. 

"  Oh,  what  will  become  of  me  ?"  she  groaned,  as  the 
door  closed  npon  her  late  nurse.  "  Do,  pray,  Howard,  go  to 
the  kitchen  and  get  me  some — some — /  don't  know  what, 
but  get  me  something  /" 

With  a  very  vague  idea  as  to  what  he  was  to  get  or  to 
do,  Mr.  Hastings  left  the  room  just  as  it  was  entered  by 
Eugenia,  to  whom  Ella  detailed  her  grievances.  "Her 
head  ached  dreadfully,  Howard  was  cross,  and  her  nurse 
gone.  Oh,  Eugenia  1"  she  cried,  "what  shall  I  do  ?  I  wish 
I  could  die.  Don't  ever  get  married.  What  shall  I  do  ?" 

And  hiding  her  face  in  the  pillow,  poor  Ella  sobbed 
bitterly.  For  a  time  Eugenia  stood,  revolving  the  propriety 
of  offering  Dora  as  a  substitute  in  the  place  of  the  girl  who 
had  just  left.  "Mother  can  work  a  little  harder,"  she 
thought.  "  And  Alice  can  help  her  occasionally.  It  will 
please  Mr.  Hastings,  I  know.  Poor  man,  I  pity  him!" 

So,  more  on  account  of  the  pity  she  felt  for  Mr.  Hastings, 
than  for  the  love  she  bore  his  wife,  she  said  at  last,  "  We 
have  a  little  girl  at  our  house,  who  is  very  capable  for  one 
of  her  years.  I  think  she  would  be  quite  handy  in  a  sick 
room.  At  all  events,  she  can  rock  the  baby.  Shall  I  send 
her  up  until  you  get  some  one  else  ?" 

"  Oh,  if  you  only  would,"  answered  Ella.  "  I  should  be 
BO  glad." 

So,  it  was  arranged  that  Dora  should  come  next  morn 
ing,  and  then  Eugenia,  who  was  this  time  in  a  hurry,  took 
her  leave,  having  first  said  that  Mrs.  Hastings  "needn't 
think  strange  if  Dora  called  her  cousin,  and  her  mother  aunt, 
for  she  was  a  poor  relation,  whom  they  had  taken  out  of 
charity  I" 

At  first  Mrs.  Deane  objected  to  letting  her  niece  go, 
"  for  she  was  needed  at  home,"  she  said  ;  but  Eugenia 
finally  prevailed,  as  she  generally  did,  and  the  next  morning 


DORA    AT    ROSE    HILL.  67 

Dora,  who  was  rather  pleased  with  the  change,  started 
bundle  in  hand  for  Rose  Hill.  She  had  never  been  there 
before,  and  she  walked  leisurely  along,  admiring  the  beauti 
ful  house  and  grounds,  and  thinking  Mrs.  Hastings  must  be 
very  happy  to  live  in  so  fine  a  place.  Ella  was  unusuallj 
nervous  and  low-spirited  this  morning,  for  her  husband  had 
gone  to  Rochester  ;  and  when  Dora  was  shown  into  the 
room  she  was  indulging  in  a  fit  of  crying,  and  paid  no 
attention  whatever  when  Mrs.  Leah  said,  "This  is  the  new 
girl."  "  She'll  get  over  it  directly,"  muttered  the  house 
keeper,  as  she  went  from  the  room,  leaving  Dora  inexpressi 
bly  shocked  at  witnessing  such  grief  in  one  whom  she  had 
thought  so  happy. 

"  Can  I  do  anything  for  you  ?"  she  said  at  last,  drawing 
near,  and  involuntarily  laying  her  hand  on  the  golden  curls 
Bhe  had  so  much  admired. 

There  was  genuine  sympathy  in  the  tones  of  that  childish 
voice,  which  touched  an  answering  chord  in  Ella's  heart, 
and  lifting  up  her  head  she  gazed  curiously  at  the  little 
brown-faced  girl,  who  stood  there  neatly  attired  in  a  dress 
of  plain  dark  calico,  her  auburn  hair,  which  had  grown 
rapidly,  combed  back  from  her  open  brow,  and  her  dark- 
blue  eyes  full  of  tears.  No  one  could  mistake  Dora  Deane 
for  a  menial,  and  few  could  look  upon  her  without  being  at 
once  interested  ;  for  early  sorrow  had  left  a  shade  of  sadness 
upon  her  handsome  face,  unusual  in  one  so  young.  Then, 
too,  there  was  an  expression  of  goodness  and  truth  shining 
out  all  over  her  countenance,  and  Ella's  heart  yearned 
towards  her.  at  once  as  towards  a  long-tried  friend.  Stretch 
ing  out  her  white,  wasted  hand,  she  said,  "And  you  are 
Dora.  I  am  glad  you  have  come.  The  sight  of  you  makea 
sne  feel  better  already,"  and  the  small,  rough  hand  she  held 
tfas  pressed  with  a  fervor  which  showed  that  she  was  sin« 


38  DORA    DEANE. 

cere  in  what  she  said.  It  was  strange  how  fast  they  grew 
to  liking  each  other — those  two  children — for  in  everything 
save  years,  Ella  was  younger  far  than  Dora  Deane  ;  and  U 
was  strange,  too,  what  a  change  the  little  girl's  presence 
wrought  in  the  sick-chamber.  Naturally  neat  and  orderly, 
she  could  not  sit  quietly  down  in  the  midst  of  disorder,  and 
as  far  as  she  was  able,  she  put  things  in  their  proper  places; 
then,  as  her  quick-seeing  eye  detected  piles  of  dust  which 
for  days  had  been  unmolested,  she  said,  "  Will  it  disturb 
you  if  I  sweep  ?" 

"•  Not  at  all.  Do  what  you  like,"  answered  Ella,  her  own 
spirits  rising  in  proportion  as  the  appearance  of  her  sur 
roundings  was  improved. 

Everything  was  in  order  at  last.  The  carpet  was  swept, 
the  furniture  dusted,  the  chairs  emptied,  the  curtains  looped 
back,  and  the  hearth  nicely  washed.  Fresh,  clean  linen 
was  put  upon  the  pillows,  while  Ella's  tangled  curls  were 
carefully  brushed  and  tucked  under  her  tasteful  cap,  and 
then  for  the  first  time  Dora  took  the  baby  upon  her  lap.  It 
was  a  little  thing,  but  very  beautiful  to  the  young  .mother, 
'and  beautiful,  too,  to  Dora,  when  she  learned  that  its  name 
was  "  Fannie." 

" Fannie!"  how  it  carried  her  back  to  the  long  ago, 
when  her  father  had  spoken,  and  her  precious  mother  had 
answered  to  that  blessed  name  !  And  how  it  thrilled  her 
as  she  repeated  it  again  and  again,  while  her  tears  fell  liko 
rain  on  the  face  of  the  unconscious  infant. 

"  Why  do  you  cry  ?"  asked  Ella,  and  Dora  answered,  "  1 
am  thinking  of  mother.  Her  name  was  Fannie^  and  I  shall 
love  the  baby  for  her  sake." 

"  Has  your  mother  long  been  dead  ?  Tell  me  of  her," 
Baid  Ella  ;  and  drawing  her  cha;r  close  to  the  bedside,  Dora 
told  the  sad  story  of  her  life,  while  Ella  Hastings's  tears  felJ 


DORA    AT    HOSE    HILL.  6f 

fast  and  her  eyes  opened  wide  with  wonder  as  she  heard  of 
the  dreary  room,  the  dead  mother,  the  bitter  cold  night,  and 
of  the  good  lady  who  brought  them  aid. 

Starting  up  in  bed  and  looking  earnestly  at  Dora,  Ella 
Baid,  "And  you  are  the  little  girl  whom  Howard  and  Mrs. 
Elliott  found  sleeping  on  her  mother's  neck  that  New  Year'a 
morning.  But  God  didn't  let  you  freeze.  He  saved  you 
to  live  with  me,  which  you  will  do  always.  And  I  will  be 
to  you  a,  sister,  for  I  know  you  must  be  good." 

And  the  impulsive  creature  threw  her  arms  around  the 
neck  of  the  astonished  Dora,  who  for  some  time  could  not 
speak,  so  surprised  and  delighted  was  she  to  learu  that  her 
benefactress  was  indeed  the  sister  of  Mr.  Hastings.  After 
a  moment,  Ella  continued,  "  And  you  came  to  live  with 
some  distant  relatives — with  Mrs.  Deane  ?" 

"  Yes,  with  Aunt  Sarah,"  answered  Dora,  stating  brieflj 
the  comparatively  double  relationship  that  existed  between 
herself  and  her  cousins,  and  casually  mentioning  her  uncle 
Nathaniel,  whom  she  had  never  seen. 

"  Then  he  is  your  uncle,  too — the  old  East  India  man, 
whose  heir  Eugenia  is  to  be.  I  should  think  he  would  send 
you  money." 

"  He  never  does,"  said  Dora,  in  a  choking  voice.  "  He 
sent  some  to  Eugenia  once,  but  none  to  me,"  and  a  tear  at 
her  uncle's  supposed  coldness  fell  on  the  baby's  head. 

Ella  was  puzzled,  but  she  conld  not  doubt  the  truth  of 
what  Dora  had  said,  though  she  wisely  refrained  from  be 
traying  Eugenia,  in  whom  her  confidence  was  slightly 
Bhaken,  but  was  soon  restored  by  the  appearance  of  the 
young  lady  herself,  who  overwhelmed  her  with  caresses, 
and  went  into  ecstasies  over  the  little  Fannie,  thus  surely 
winning  her  way  to  the  mother's  heart.  Owing  to  a  severe 
cold  from  which  Eugenia  was  suffering,  she  left  for  home 


70  DORA    DEANE. 

about  dark,  and  soon  after  her  departure,  Ella  began  to  ex 
pect  her  husband. 

"  If  you  will  tell  me  where  to  find  his  dressing-gown  and 
slippers,  Fll  bring  them  out  for  him,"  said  Dora,  wheeling 
up  before. the  glowing  grate  the  large  easy-chair  which  she 
felt  almost  sure  was  occupied  by  Mr.  Hastings. 

"  His  gown  and  slippers  1"  repeated  Ella.  "  It's  an  age 
since  I  saw  them,  but  I  guess  they  are  in  the  dressing-room, 
either  behind  the  door,  or  in  the  bla°,k  trunk,  or  on  the 
shelf — or,  stay,  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  they  were  on  the  closet 
floor:' 

And  there,  under  a  promiscuous  pile  of  other  garments, 
Dora  found  them,  sadly  soiled,  and  looking  as  if  they  had 
not  seen  the  light  for  many  a  day.  Shaking  out  the  gown, 
and  brushing  the  dust  from  off  the  slippers,  she  laid  them  in 
the  chair,  and  Ella,  who  was  watching  her,  said,  "  Pray, 
what  put  that  into  your  mind  ?" 

"  I  don't  know,"  returned  Dora  ;  "  only  I  thought,  per 
haps,  you  did  so,  when  you  were  well.  Ever  so  long  ago, 
before  pa  died,  mother  made  him  a  calico  dressing-gown,  and 
he  used  to  look  so  pleased  when  he  found  it  in  his  chair." 

"  Strange  I  never  thought  of  such  things,"  softly  whis 
pered  Ella,  unconsciously  learning  a  lesson  from  the  little 
domestic  girl,  who  brushed  the  hearth,  dropped  the  curtains, 
lighted  the  lamp,  and  then  went  out  to  the  kitchen  in  quest 
of  milk  for  Fannie. 

"  He  will  be  so  happy  and  pleased  !"  said  Ella,  as,  lifting 
up  her  head,  she  surveyed  the  cheerful  room. 

And  happy  indeed  he  was.  It  was  the  first  time  he  had 
left  his  wife  since  her  illness,  and  with  a  tolerable  degree  of 
satisfaction  he  took  his  seat  in  the  evening  cars.  We  say 
tolerable,  for  though  he  was  really  anxious  to  see  EHj,  and 
the  baby,  he  was  in  no  particular  haste  to  see  the  r  j^in  i» 


DORA    AT    ROSE    HILL.  71 

Which  he  had  left 'them  ;  and  rather  reluctantly  he  entered 
his  handsome  dwelling,  starting  back  when  he  opened  the 
door  of  the-sick  chamber,  and  half  thinking  he  had  mis 
taken  another  man's  house  for  his  own.  But  Ella's  voice 
reassured  him,  and  in  a  few  moments  he  had  heard  from  her 
the  story  of  Dora  Deane,  who  ere  long  came  in,  and  waa 
duly  presented.  Taking  her  hand  in  his,  and  looking  down 
upon  her  with  his  large  black  eyes,  he  said,  "  I  have  seen 
you  before,  I  believe,  but  I  did  not  then  think  that  when  we 
met  again  I  should  be  so  much  indebted  to  you.  I  am  glad 
you  are  here,  Dora." 

Once  before  had  he  held  that  hand  in  his,  and  now,  as 
then,  the  touch  sent  the  warm  blood  bounding  through  her 
veins.  She  had  passed  through  much  since  that  wintry 
morning,  had  grown  partially  indifferent  to  coldness  and 
neglect,  but  the  extreme  kindness  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hastings 
touched  her  heart ;  and  stammering  out  an  almost  inaudible 
reply,  she  turned  away  to  hide  her  tears,  while  Mr.  Hast 
ings,  advancing  towards  the  fire,  exclaimed,  "  My  double 
gown!  And  it's  so  long  since  I  saw  it!  To  whose  thought- 
fulness  am  I  indebted  for  this  ?" 

"  'Twas  Dora,"  answered  Ella.  "  She  thinks  of  every 
thing.  She  is  my  good  angel,  and  I  mean  to  keep  her 
always,  if  she  will  stay.  Will  you,  dear  ?" 

"  Oh,  if  I  only  could,"  answered  Dora;  "  but  I  can't.  They 
need  me  at  home  1" 

"  Why  need  you  ?  They  have  servants  enough,"  said 
Ella,  who  had  not  yet  identified  Eugenia's  waiting-maid 
with  the  bright,  intelligent  child  before  her. 

"  We  have  no  servants  but  me"  answered  the  truthful 
Dora.  "  We  are  poor,  and  I  help  Aunt  Sarah  to  pay  for 
my  board;  so,  you  see,  I  can't  stay.  And  then,  too,  I  must 
go  to  school." 


?*  DORA    DEANE. 

Perfectly  astonished  at  this  fresh  disclosure,  Ella  glanced 
towards  her  husband,  whose  quizzical  expression  kept  he/" 
bilent,  for  it  seemed  to  say,  "  I  told  you  all  the  time,  that 
Miss  Eugenia  was  not  exactly  what  you  supposed  her 
to  be." 

"  How  could  she  deceive  me  so  ?"  thought  Ella,  while  Mi- 
Hastings  was  mentally  resolving  to  befriend  the  child,  in 
lyhcm  he  felt  such  a  strong  interest. 

Wishing  to  know  something  of  her  education,  he  ques 
tioned  her  during  the  evening  concerning  her  studies,  and 
the  books  she  had  read,  feeling  surprised  and  pleased  to  find 
how  good  a  scholar  she  was,  considering  her  advantages. 

"  There's  the  germ  of  a  true,  noble  woman  there.  I  wish 
my  sister  could  have  the  training  of  her,"  he  thought,  as  he 
saw  how  animated  she  became  when  he  mentioned  her 
favorite  books,  and  then  watched  her  as  she  hovered  round 
the.  bedside  of  his  wife. 

Very  swiftly  and  pleasantly  passed  the  three  following 
days,  and  during  all  that  time  Eugenia  did  not  once  appear; 
but  at  the  close  of  the  fourth  day,  a  note  was  brought  to 
Ella,  saying  that  both  Eugenia  and  her  mother  were  sick, 
and  Dora  must  come  home. 

"  Oh,  how  can  I  let  you  go  ?"  cried  Ella,  while  Dora 
crept  away  into  a  corner  and  wept. 

But  there  was  no  alternative,  and  just  at  dark  she  came 
to  say,  good  bye.  "Winding  her  feeble  arms  around  her 
iieck,  Ella  sobbed  out  her  adieu,  and  then,  burying  her  face 
in  her  pillow,  refused  to  be  comforted.  One  kiss  for  the 
little  Fannie — one  farewell  glance  at  the  weeping  Ella,  and 
then,  with  a  heavy  heart,  Dora  went  put  from  a  place  where 
she  had  been  so  happy — went  back  to  the  home  where  no 
one  greeted  her  kindly,  save  the  old  house  cat,  who  purred 
a  joyous  welcome,  and  rubbed  against  her  side  as  she 


DORA    AT    ROSE    HILL.  7« 

kindled  a  fire  in  the  dark,  dreary  kitchen,  where,  on  the 
table,  were  piles  of  dishes  left  for  her  to  wash.  That  night, 
when,  at  a  late  hour,  she  stole  up  to  bed,  the  contrast 
between  her  humble  room  and  the  cozy  chamber  where  she 
had  recently  slept,  affected  her  painfully,  and,  mingled  with 
her  nightly  prayer,  was  the  petition,  that  "  sometimes  she 
might  go  back  and  live  with  Mr.  Hastings  !" 

Meantime  at  Rose  Hill  there  was  sorrowing  for  her,  Ella 
refusing  to  be  comforted  unless  she  should  return.  Mr.  Hast 
ings,  who  had  spent  the  day  in  the  city,  and  did  not  come 
home  until  evening,  felt  that  something  was  wrong  the 
moment  he  entered  the  door  of  his  chamber.  The  fire  was 
nearly  out,  the  lamp  was  burning  dimly,  and  Ella  was  in 
tears. 

"  What  is  it,  darling  ?"  he  asked,  advancing  towards 
her  ;  and  laying  her  aching  head  upon  his  bosom,  she  told 
him  of  her  loss,  and  how  much  she  missed  the  little'  brown- 
faced  girl,  who  had  been  so  kind  to  her. 

And  Howard  Hastings  missed  her,  too — missed  the  tones 
of  her  gentle  voice,  the  soft  tread  of  her  busy  feet,  and 
more  than  all,  missed  the  sunlight  of  comfort  she  had  shed 
over  his  home.  The  baby,  missed  her,  too;  for  over  her 
Dora  had  acquired  an  almost  mesmeric  influence,  and  until 
midnight  her  wailing  cry  smote  painfully  upon  the  ear  of 
the  father,  who,  before  the  morning  dawned,  had  concluded 
that  Rose  Hill  was  nothing  without  Dora  Deane.  "  She 
shall  come  back,  too,"  he  said,  and  the  sooner  to  effect  this, 
he  started  immediately  after  breakfast  for  the  house  of 
Mra.  Dcane.  Very  joyfully  the  deep  blue  eyes  of  Dora, 
who  met  him  at  the  door,  looked  up  into  his,  and  her 
bright  face  flushed  with  delight  when  he  told  her  why  he 
had  come.  Both  Eugenia  and  her  mother  were  convalescent, 
and  sitting  by  the  parlor  fire,  the  one  in  a  shilling  calico, 

4 


74  DORA    DEANE. 

and  the  other  in  a  plaid  silk  morning  gown.  At  first 
Mrs.  Deane  objected,  when  she  heard  Mr.  Hastings's  errand, 
eaying,  with  a  sudden  flash  of  pride,  that  "  it  was  not 
necessary  for  her  niece  to  work  out." 

"  And  I  assure  you,  it  is  not  our  intention  to  make  a 
servant  of  her,"  answered  Mr.  Hastings.  "  We  could  not  do 
otherwise  than  treat  so  near  a  relative  of  yours  as  an  equal." 

This  last  was  well  timed,  and  quite  complacently  Mrs. 
Deane  listened,  while  he  told  her  that  if  Dora  were  allowed 
to  stay  with  them  until  his  wife  was  better,  she  should  be 
well  cared  for,  and  he  himself  would  superintend  her  studies, 
so  she  should  lose  nothing  by  being  out  of  school.  "  Come, 
Miss  Eugenia,"  he  continued,  "  please  intercede  for  me,  and, 
I  assure  you,  both  Ella  and  myself  will  be  eternally  grateful." 

He  had  touched  the  right  chord  at  last.  Rumor  said 
that  Ella  Hastings  would  never  see  another  summer,  and  if 
before  her  death  the  husband  was  eternally  grateful,  what 
would  he  not  be  after  her  death  ?  Then,  too,  but  the  day 
before  they  had  received  a  remittance  from  Uncle  Nat,  and 
with  that  they  could  afford  to  hire  a  servant ;  so,  when 
Eugenia  spoke,  it  was  in  favor  of  letting  "  Mr.  Hastings 
have  Dora  just  when  he.  wanted  tier,  if  it  would  be  any  satis 
faction  to  poor  dear  Ella  !" 

A  while  longer  Mr.  Hastings  remained,  and  when  at  last 
he  arose  to  go,  he  was  as  sure  that  Dora  Deane  would 
again  gladden  his  home  as  he  was  next  morning,  when  from 
his  library  window  he  saw  her  come  tripping  up  the  walk, 
her  cheeks  flushed  with  exercise,  and  her  eyes  sparkling 
with  joy,  as,  glancing  upward,  she  saw  him  looking  down 
npon  her.  In  after  years,  when  Howard  Hastings's  cup  was 
full  of  blessings,  he  often  referred  to  that  morning,  saying 
"  he  had  seldom  experienced  a  moment  of  deeper  thankful 
ness  than  the  one  when  he  welcomed  back  again  to  h'? 
fireside  and  his  home  the  orphan  Dora  Deane." 


ELLA. 


.  CHAPTER  X. 

ELLA. 

VKBY  pleasantly  to  Dora  did  the  remainder  of  the  wintel 
pass  away.  She  was  appreciated  at  last,  and  nothing  could 
exceed  the  kindness  of  both  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hastings,  the  lat 
ter  of  whom  treated  her  more  like  a  sister  than  a  servant, 
while  even  Eugenia,  who  came  often  to  Rose  Hill,  and 
whose  fawning  manner  had  partially  restored  her  to  the 
good  opinion  of  the  fickle  Ella,  tried  to  treat  her  with  a 
show  of  affection,  when  she  saw  how  much  she  was  respected. 
Regularly  each  day  Dora  went  to  the  handsome  library, 
where  she  recited  her  lessons  to  Mr.  Hastings,  who  became 
deeply  interested  in  watching  the  development  of  her  fine, 
intellectual  mind. 

One  thing,  however,  troubled  her.  Ella  did  not  improve 
and  never  since  Dora  came  to  Rose  Hill  had  she  sat  up 
more  than  an  hour,  but  lay  all  day  on  her  bed,  while  her 
face  grew  white  almost  as  the  wintry  snow,  save  when  a 
bright  red  spot  burned  upon  her  cheeks,  making  her,  aa 
Dora  thought,  even  more  beautiful  than  she  had  been  in 
health.  Once  in  the  gathering  twilight,  when  they  sat 
together  alone,  she  startled  Dora  with  the  question,  "  la 
everybody  af:aid  to  die  ?" 

"  Mother  ^as  not,"  answered  Dora,  and  Ella  continued, 
'*  But  she  rt-as  good,  and  I  am  not.  I  have  never  douo 


76  DORA    DEANE. 

a  worthy  act  in  all  my  life.  Never  thought  of  dtatk,  01 
even  looked  upon  it,  for  mother  told  us  there  was  no  need 
of  harrowing  up  our  feelings — it  would  come  soon  enough, 
she  said  ;  and  to  me,  who  hoped  to  live  so  long,  it  has  come 
too  soon — all  too  soon  ;"  and  the  hot  tears  rained  through 
the  transparent  fingers,  clasped  so  convulsively  over  her 
face. 

For  many  weeks  Dora  had  felt  an  undefined  presentiment 
of  coming  evil — had  seen  it  in  Ella's  failing  health — in  the 
increased  tenderness  of  Mr.  Hastings's  manner,  whenever  he 
bent  over  the  pillow  of  his  youug  wife,  or  bore  her  in  his 
arms,  as  he  sometimes  did,  to  the  window,  that  she  might 
look  out  upon  the  garden,  and  the  winding  walks  which  she 
would  never  tread  again.  And  now  Ella  herself  had  con 
firmed  it — had  spoken  of  death  as  something  very  near. 

"  Oh,  she  must  not  die  I"  was  Dora's  mental  cry  of 
anguish,  as  moving  nearer  to  the  bedside  she  grasped  the 
little  wasted  hand  which  lay  outside  the  counterpane,  and 
this  was  her  only  answer,  for  she  could  not  speak.  There 
was  a  numbness  at  her  heart,  a  choking  sensation  in  her 
ihroat,  which  prevented  her  utterance.  But  Ella  understood 
her,  and  returning  the  warm  pressure,  she  continued,  "You, 
too,  have  seen  it  then,  and  know  that  I  must  die  ;  but  oh  ! 
you  do  not  know  how  I  dread  the  Idnesome  darkness  of  the 
grave,  or  the  world  which  lies  beyond.  If  somebody  would 
go  with  me,  or  teach  me  the  way,  it  wouldn't  be  so 
hard." 

Poor  Ella  1  Her  life  had  been  one  round  of  fashionable 
folly,  and  now  that  the  world  was  fading  from  her  view,  her 
faiuting  soul  cried  out  for  light  to  guide  her  through"  the 
shadowy  valley  her  feet  were  soon  to  tread.  And  light 
came  at  last,  through  the  word  of  God  and  the  teachings 
of  the  faithful  clergyman,  who  was  sent  for  at  her  reqrest. 


ELLA.  *7 

and  who  came  daily  np  to  see  her.  There  was  no  more  fear 
now — no  more  terror  of  the  narrow  tomb,  for  there  was  Om 
to  go  with  her — one  whose  arm  was  powerful  to  save  ;  and 
on  him  Ella  learned  to  lean,  clinging  still  with  an  undying 
love  to  her  husband,  with  whom  she  often  talked  of  the  time 
when  he  would  be  alone  and  she  be  far  away. 

"  It  is  so  hard  to  give  you  up,"  she  said  one  day,  when  as 
usual  he  was  sitting  by  her  side  ;  "  so  hard  to  say  good  bye 
forever,  and  know  that  though  you  will  miss  me  at  first,  and 
mourn  for  me  too,  there  will  come  a  time  when  another  will 
take  my  place — another  than  Ella  can  call  you  hers  ;  but  I 
am  willing,"  she  continued,  as  she  saw  him  about  to  speak, 
"  willing  that  it  should  be  so.  I  have  loved  yon,  Howard, 
more  than  you  can  know,  or  I  can  ever  tell  ;  but  I  am  not 
worthy  of  you.  I  do  not  satisfy  the  higher  feelings  of  your 
heart  ;  I  am  not  what  your  wife  should  be,  and  for  this 
I  must  die.  Many  a  night,  when  you  were  sleeping  at  ray 
side,  have  I  laiu  awake,  asking  myself  why  7,  to  whom  the 
world  was  so  beautiful  and  bright,  must  leave  it  so  soon  ; 
and  as  I  thought  over  the  events  of  our  short  married  life, 
the  answer  came  to  me,  '  I  cannot  make  you  happy  as  you 
ought  to  be,  and  for  your  sake  I  am  taken  away.' " 

"  Oh,  Ella,  'Ella  1"  groaned  Mr.  Hastings,  laying  his  head 
beside  hers,  upon  the  pillow. 

From  his  inmost  soul  he  knew  that  what  she  said  was 
true  ;  but  for  this  he  would  not  that  she  should  die.  She 
had  been  to  him  a  gentle,  loving  wife;  the  one  be  had  chosen 
from  all  others  to  share  his  home  ;  and  though  he  had  failed 
to  find  in  her  the  companion  he  had  sought,  she  was  very 
dear  to  him — was  the  mother  of  his  child  ;  and  the  strong 
man's  heart  was  full  of  anguish  as  he  thought  of  giving  her 
np  so  soon.  Who  would  comfort  him  when  she  was  gone, 
or  speak  to  him  words  of  love  ? 


78  DORA    DEANE. 

Softly  the  chamber  door  unclosed,  and  Dora  Deane  looke,] 
in;  but  seeing  them  thus  together,  she  stole  away  into  the 
garden,  where  the  early  spring  grass  was  just  starting  into 
life,  and  there,  weeping  bitterly,  she  too  prayed  that  Ella 
might  not  die.  But  neither  tears  nor  prayers  were  of  avail 
to  save  her.  Still,  for  weeks  she  lingered,  and  the  soft  June 
air,  stealing  in  through  the  open  window,  had  more  than 
once  lifted  the  golden  curls  from  off  her  fading  brow,  and 
more  than  one  bouquet  of  sweet  wild  blossoms  had  beeu 
laid  upon  her  pillow,  ere  the  midnight  hour,  when,  with  an 
guish  at  their  hearts,  Howard  Hastings  and  Dora  Deane 
watched  together  by  her  side,  and  knew  that  she  was  dying. 
There  had  been  long,  dreary  nights  of  wakefulness,  and  the 
worn-out  sufferer  had  asked  at  last  that  she  might  die — 
might  sleep  the  dreamless  sleep  from  which  she  would  never 
waken.  And  Howard  Hastings,  as  night  after  night  went 
by,  and  the  laughing  blue  eyes  which  had  won  his  early  love 
grew  dim  with  constant  waking,  had  felt  that  it  would  be 
better  when  his  loved  one  was  at  rest.  But  death,  however 
long  expected,  is  sudden  at  the  last,  and  so  it  was  to  him, 
when  he  saw  the  shadow  creeping  over  her  face,  which 
cometh  once  to  all.  She  would  not  suffer  them  to  rouse  the 
household,  she  would  rather  die  with  them  alone,  she  said, 
with  Dora  standing  near,  and  her  husband's  arms  about  her, 
BO  that  the  tones  of  his  voice  should  be  the  last  sound  which 
would  fall  upon  her  ear,  and  Dora's  hand  the  last  to  minis 
ter  to  her  wants. 

"  I  have  loved  you  so  much,  Howard,  oh,  so  much  !"  and 
th:  white  clammy  fingers,  so  soon  to  be  laid  away  beneath 
the  summer  flowers,  strayed  lovingly  through  the  raven 
locks  of  her  husband,  who  could  answer  only  with  his  tears, 
which  fell  fast  upon  her  face.  "  And  you  too,  Dora,"  she 
continued,  motioning  the  weeping  girl  to  advance,  "  I  have 


ELLA.  n 

loved  you  too,  for  you  have  been  kind  to  me,  and  when  I 
am  gone,  you  will  live  here  still  and  care  for  my  child, 
whom  we  have  called  Fannie.  It  is  a  beautiful  name,  Dora 
— your  mother's  name,  and  for  your  sake,  I  would  fain  let 
her  keep  it — but,"  turning  to  Mr.  Hastings,  and  laying  her 
hand  caressingly  upon  his  head,  "  when  I  no  longer  UTC,  I 
would  rather  you  should  call  my  baby  Ella  Grey ;  and  if, 
my  husband  " — here  she  paused  to  gather  strength  for  what 
she  was  about  to  say,  and  after  a  moment  continued,  "  if  in 
coming  years,  another  sits  beside  you  in  my  chair,  and  the 
voices  of  other  children  shall  call  you  father,  you  will  not 
forget  your  first-born,  I  know,  but  will  love  her  better,  and 
think,  perchance,  the  oftener  of  me,  if  she  bears  my  name  ; 
for  however  truly  you  may  hereafter  love,  it  was  Ella  Grey 
that  won  your  first  affection. 

Again  she  paused,  and  there  was  no  sound  heard  in  the 
chamber  of  death,  save  the  sobs  of  those  about  to  be  be 
reaved,  and  the  faint  rustling  of  the  leaves  without,  which 
were  gently  moved  by  the  night  wind. 

"  Bring  me  my  baby,"  she  said  at  last;  and  Dora  laid  the 
sleeping  child  in  the  arms  of  the  young  mother,  who,  clasp 
ing  it  fondly  to  her  bosom,  breathed  over  it  a  dying  mother's 
blessing,  and  with  a  dying  mother's  tears  baptized  it  Ella 
Grey. 

There  was  a  long,  deep  silence  then,  and  when  at  last 
Howard  Hastings  lifted  up  his  head  from  the  pillow  where 
it  had  been  resting,  and  Dora  Deane  came  timidly  to  hia 
gide,  they  gazed  toge;  her  on  the  face  of  the  sweetly  sleeping 
lead 


DORA    DKANE. 


CHAPTER  XL 

THE    HOUSE    OF    MOURNING. 

ELLA  HASTINGS  was  dead.  The  deep-toued  bell  pro 
claimed  it  to  the  people  of  Duuwood,  who,  counting  the 
nineteen  strokes,  sighed  that  one  so  young  should  die.  The 
telegraphic  wires  carried  it  to  her  childhood's  home,  in  the 
far-off  city  ;  and  while  her  tears  were  dropping  fast  for  the 
first  dead  of  her  children,  the  fashionable  mother  did  not 
forget  to  have  her  mourning  in  the  most  expensive  and  be 
coming  style.  The  servants  in  the  kitchen  whispered  it  one 
to  the  other,  treading  softly  and  speaking  low,  as  if  aught 
could  disturb  the  slumber  of  her  who  lay  so  motionless  and 
still,  unmindful  of  the  balmy  summer  air  which  kissed  her 
marble  cheek.  The  grief-stricken  husband  repeated  it  again 
and  again  as  he  sat  by  her  side  in  the  darkened  room  ;  and 
only  they  who  have  felt  it,  can  know  with  what  a  crushing 
weight  they  fell  upon  his  heart,  the  three  words — "  She  ia 
dead  !" 

Yes,  Ella  was  dead,  and  Eugenia  Deane,  with  hypocriti 
cul  tears  upon  her  cheek,  gathered  fresh,  white  rose-buds, 
and  twining  them  in  the  golden  curls  which  shaded  the  face 
of  the  beautiful  dead,  dared  even  there  to  think  that  IIoMo> 
ard  Hastings  was  free ;  and  as  she  saw  the  silent  grief  of 
the  stricken  man,  who,  with  his  head  upon  the  table,  sat 
hour  after  hour,  unmindful  of  the  many  who  came  to  look  on 


THE    HOUSE    OF    MOURNING.  8\ 

what  had  been  his  wife,  her  lip  curled  with  scorn,  and  she 
marvelled  that  one  so  frivolous  as  Ella  should' be  so  deeply 
mourned.  Once  she  ventured  to  speak,  asking  him  some 
trivial  thing  concerning  the  arrangement  of  affairs,  and  with 
out  looking  up,  he  answered,  "  Do  as  you  like,  until  her  mo 
ther  comes.  She  will  be  here  to-morrow." 

So,  for  the  remainder  of  the  day,  Eugenia  flitted  from  the 
parlor  to  the  chamber  of  death,  from  the  chamber  of  death 
to  the  kitchen,  and  from  the  kitchen  back  again  to  the  par 
lor,  ordering  the  servants,  admitting  visitors,  and  between 
times  scolding  Dora  for  "  being  so  foolish  as  to  cry  herself 
sick  for  a  person  who,  of  course,  cared  nothing  for  her,  ex 
cept  as  a  waiter  1" 

Since  the  night  of  her  mother's  death,  Dora's  heart  had 
not  been  half  so  sore  with  pain.  The  girlish  Ella  had  been 
very  dear  to  her,  and  the  tears  she  shed  were  genuine.  To 
no  one  else  would  the  baby  go,  and  after  dinner  was  over, 
the  dinner  at  which  Eugenia  presided,  and  of  which  Mr. 
Hastings  could  not  be  induced  to  partake,  she  went  into 
the  garden  with  her  little  charge,  seating  herself  in  a  pleasant 
summer-house,  which  had  been  Ella's  favorite  resort.  It 
was  a  warm,  drowsy  afternoon,  and  at  last,  worn  out  with 
weeping,  and  the  fatigue  of  the  last  night's  watching,  she 
fell  asleep,  as  the  baby  had  done  before.  Not  long  had 
she  sat  thus,  when  Mr.  Hastings,  too,  came  down  the 
gravelled  walk,  and  stood  at  the  arbor  door.  The  constant 
bustling  in  and  out  of  Eugenia  annoyed  him,  and  wishing  to 
be  alone,  he  had  come  out  into  the  open  air,  which  he  felt 
would  do  him  good.  When  his  eye  fell  on  Dora,  who  waa 
oo  soundly  sleeping  to  be  easily  aroused,  he  murmured, 
"  Poor  child  1  she  is  wearied  with  so  many  wakeful  nights;" 
then,  fearing  lest  the  slender  arms  should  relax  their  hold 
and  drop  the  babe,  he  took  it  gently  from  her,  and  folding 

4* 


A3  DOHA    DEANE. 

it  to  his  bosom,  sat  down  by  her  side,  so  that  her  drooping 
head  could  rest  upon  his  shoulder. 

For  two  long  hours  she  slept,  and  it  was  not  until  the 
baby's  waxen  fingers  gave  a  vigorous  pull  to  her  short,  thick 
hair,  that  she  awoke,  feeling  greatly  surprised  when  she 
Baw  Mr.  Hastings  sitting  near. 

"  1  found  you  asleep,"  he  said,  by  way  of  explanation, 
"  and  knowing  how  tired  you  were,  I  gave  you  my  arm  for 
a  pillow;"  then,  as  the  baby  wished  to  go  to  her,  he  gave  it 
up,  himself  going  slowly  back  to  the  lonesome  house,  from 
which  Ella  was  gone  forever. 

The  next  morning,  the  mother  and  her  three  youngest 
daughters,  all  draped  in  deepest  black,  arrived  at  Rose 
Hill,  prepared  to  find  fault  with  everything  which  savored 
at  all  of  the  "  horrid  country."  Even  Eugenia  sank  into 
nonenity  in  the  presence  of  the  cold,  city-bred  woman,  who 
ignored  her  existence  entirely,  notwithstanding  that  she 
loudly  and  repeatedly  expressed  so  much  affection  for  the 
deceased. 

"  Perhaps  your  daughter  wrote  to  you  of  me  (Miss  Deane); 
we  were  great  friends,"  she  said,  when  they  stood  together 
in  the  presence  of  the  dead,  and  Mrs.  Grey's  emotions  hat? 
somewhat  subsided. 

"  Possibly;  but  I  never  remember  names,"  returned  the 
haughty  lady,  without  raising  her  eyes. 

"  There  are  so  few  people  here  with  whom  she  could  be 
intimate,"  continued  Eugenia,  "  that  I  saw  a  great  deal  of 
her." 

But  to  this  Mrs.  Grey  made  no  reply,  except  to  ask, 
"  Whose  idea  was  it  dressing  Ella  in  this  plain  muslin  wrap 
per,  when  she  has  so  many  handsome  dresses  ?  But  it  don't 
matter,"  she  continued,  as  Eugenia  was  about  to  disclaim 
all  participation  in  that  affair.  "  It  don't  matter,  for  no 


THE    HOUSE    OF    MOURNING.  81 

one  here  appreciates  anything  better,  I  dare  say,  Whtre'a 
the  baby  ?  I  haven't  seen  that  yet,"  she  asked,  as  they 
were  descending  the  stairs. 

"  She's  with  Dora,  I  presume,"  answered  Eugenia;  &nd 
Mrs.  Grey  continued — 

"  Oh,  the  nurse  girl,  whom  Ella  wrote  so  much  about 
Send  her  in." 

But  Eugenia  was  not  one  to  obey  orders  so  peremptorily 
given,  and,  for  a  long  time,  Madam  Grey  and  her  three 
daughters  waited  the  appearance  of  the  nurse  girl,  who,  not 
knowing  that  they  were  in  the  parlor,  entered  it  at  last,  of 
her  own  accord,  and  stood  before  them  with  such  a  quiet, 
self-possessed  dignity,  that  even  Mrs.  Grey  treated  her  with 
far  more  respect  than  she  had  the  assuming  Eugenia,  whose 
rule,  for  the  time  being,  was  at  an  end.  Everything  had 
been  done  wrong;  and  when  Mr.  Hastings  spoke  of  having 
Ella  buried  at  the  foot  of  the  spacious  garden,  in  a  quiet, 
grassy  spot,  where  trees  of  evergreen  were  growing,  she 
held  up  her  hands  in  amazement  at  the  idea  that  her  daugh 
ter  should  rest  elsewhere  than  in  the  fashionable  precincts 
of  Greenwood.  So  Mr.  Hastings  yielded,  and  on  the  morn 
ing  of  the  third  day,  Dora  watched  with  blinding  tears  the 
long  procession  winding  slowly  down  the  avenue,  and  out 
into  the  highway  towards  the  village  depot,  where  the 
shrieking  of  the  engine,  and  the  rattling  of  the  car  bell 
would  be  the  only  requiem  tolled  for  Ella  Hastings,  as  she 
was  borne  rapidly  away  from  a  spot  which  had  been  her 
home  for  one  brief  year. 

The  little  Ella  was  in  Dora's  arms,  and  as  she,  too,  saw 
the  handsome  steeds  and  moving  carriages,  she  laughed 
aloud,  and  patted  the  window-pane  with  her  tiny  baby 
hands.  Dear  little  one  I  she  did  not  know — would  never 
know,  how  much  she  was  bereaved;  but  Dora  knew,  and 


64  DOHA    DEANE. 

her  tears  fell  all  the  faster  when  she  thought  that  she,  too, 
must  leave  her,  for  her  aunt  had  said  to  Mr.  Hastings,  that 
after  the  funeral  Dora  must  go  home,  adding,  that  Mrs. 
Leah  would  take  care  of  Ella  until  his  return.  So,  when 
the  hum  of  voices  and  the  tread  of  feet  had  ceased,  when 
the  shutters  were  closed  and  the  curtains  dropped,  Eugenia 
came  for  her  to  go,  while  Mrs.  Leah  came  to  take  the  child, 
who  refused  to  leave  Dora,  clinging  so  obstinately  to  her 
neck,  and  crying  so  pitifully,  that  even  Eugenia  was  touched, 
arid  bade  her  cousin  remain  until  Mr.  Hastings  came  home. 
So  Dora  staid,  and  the  timid  servants,  as  they  sat  together 
in  the  shadowy  twilight,  felt  not  half  so  lonely  when  they 
heard  her  gentle  voice  singing  the  motherless  babe  to  sleep. 


WAYS    AND    MEANS.  Bft 


CHAPTER  XII. 

WAY  S     AND     MEANS. 

WITH  all  the  showy  parade  and  empty  pomp  of  a  fasH- 
ionable  city  funeral,  Ella  was  laid  to  rest  in  Greenwood, 
and,  in  their  darkened  parlor,  arrayed  in  the  latest  style  of 
mourning,  the  mother  and  sisters  received  the  sympathy  of 
their  friends,  who  hoped  they  would. try  to  be  reconciled, 
and  were  so  sorry  they  could  not  now  go  to  the  Springs,  as 
usual.  In  another  parlor,  too,  far  more  elegant  but  less 
showy  than  that  of  Mrs.  Grey,  another  mother  wept  for  her 
only  son,  speaking  to  him  blessed  words  of  comfort  in  his 
bereavement,  and  telling  him  of  the  better  world,  where 
again  he  would  meet  the  loved  and  lost.  Once  she  ventured 
to  hope  that  he  would  come  back  again  to  her  fireside,  now 
that  his  was  desolate,  but  he  refused.  Rose  Hill  henceforth 
would  be  his  home,  and  though  it  was  lonely  and  drear,  he 
must  in  a  few  days  go  back  to  it  ;  for  the  sake  of  the  little 
one,  doubly  dear  to  him  now  that  its  mother  was  gone.  Oh, 
how  sad  was  that  journey  back,  and  what  a  sense  of  deso 
lation  came  over  him,  as  he  drew  near  his  home,  and  knew 
that  Ella  was  not  there  ! — that  never  more  would  she  come 
forth  to  meet  him — never  again  would  her  little  feet  stray 
through  the  winding  walks,  or  her  fairy  fingers  pluck  the 
flowers  she  had  loved  so  well. 

It  was  near  the  first  of  July.     The  day  had  been  rainy. 


S«  DORA    DEANE. 

and  the  evening  was  dark  and  cold.  Wet,  chilly,  and  for 
lorn,  he  entered  the  hall  and  ascended  the  stairs,  but  he 
could  not  that  night  go  to  the  old  room  and  find  it  empty  ; 
and  he  was  passing  on  to  his  library,  wheu  the  sound  of 
gomo  one  singing  made  him  pause,  while  a  thrill  of  joy  ran 
through  his  veins,  for  he  knew  that  childish  voice,  knew  it 
was  Dora  Deane  singing  to  his  child.  Another  moment  arid 
he  stood  within  the  room  where  Ella  had  died.  All  traces 
of  sickness  and  death  had  been  removed,  and  everything 
was  in  perfect  order.  Vases  of  flowers  adorned  the  mantel 
and  the  stands,  seeming  little  out  of  place  with  the  rain 
which  beat  against  the  window,  and  the  fire  which  burned 
within  the  grate.  In  her  crib  lay  Fannie,  and  sitting  near 
was  Dora  Deane,  her  rich  auburn  hair  combed  smoothly 
back,  and  the  great  kindness  of  her  heart  shining  out  from 
the  depths  of  her  clear  blue  eyes. 

There  are  people  whose  very  presence  brings  with  it  a 
feeling  of  comfort,  and  such  a  one  was  Dora.  Mr.  Hast 
ings  had  not  expected  to  find  her  there  ;  and  the  sight  of 
her  bright  face,  though  it  did  not  remove  the  heavy  pain 
from  his  heart,  took  from  him  the  sense  of  utter  dcsolatioi^ 
the  feeling  of  being  alone  in  his  sorrow. 

"  Dora,"  he  exclaimed,  coming  to  her  side,  "  I  did  not 
expect  this  !  How  happened  you  to  stay  ?" 

"  The  baby  cried  so  hard,"  answered  Dora,  "  that  Eugenie 
told  me  I  might  remain  until  your  return." 

"  It  was  very  kind  and  thoughtful  in  her,  and  I  thank  her 
very  much.  Will  you  tell  her  so  ?"  he  said,  involuntarily 
kying  his  hand  on  Dora's  head. 

Divesting  himself  at  last  of  his  damp  overcoat,  and 
donning  the  warm  dressing  gown,  which  Dora  brought  him, 
he  sat  down  before  the  fire,  and  listened  while  she  told  him 
bow  she  had  staid  in  that  room  and  kept  it  in  order  for  him, 


WAYS    AND    MEANS.  81 

because  she  thought  it  would  not  seem  half  so  bad  to  him 
jf  he  came  into  it  at  once  aud  found  it  comparatively 
pleasant. 

"  You  are  a  very  thoughtful  girl,"  he  said,  when  she  had 
finished,  "  and  I  hope  I  shall  some  time  repay  you  for  your 
kindness  to  myself  and  Ella." 

Bat  Dora  did  not  wish  for  any  pay,  and  at  the  mention 
of  Ella's  name  her  tears  burst  forth  afresh.  The  next  morn 
ing,  when  news  of  Mr.  Hastings's  return  was  received  at 
Locust  Grove,  Eugenia  at  once  suggested  that  Dora  be  sent 
for  immediately.  "  It  did  not  look  well,"  she  said,  "  for  a 
good  sized  girl,  fourteen  and  a  half  years  of  age,  to  be 
staying  in  the  same  house  with  a  widower.  Folks  would 
talk  1" 

And  growing  suddenly  very  careful  of  her  cousin's  repu 
tation,  she  dispatched  a  note  to  Rose  Hill,  requesting  her 
immediate  return.  Not  that  she  really  thought  there  would 
be  any  impropriety  in  Dora's  staying  with  Mr.  Hastings,  but 
because  she  had  a  plan  by  which  she  hoped  herself  to  seo 
him  every  day.  And  in  this  plan  she  succeeded.  As  she 
had  expected,  her  note  brought  down  Mr.  Hastings  himself, 
who,  on  his  child's  account,  objected  to  parting  with  Dora, 
unless  it  were  absolutely  necessary. 

"  She  is  as  well  off  jthere  as  here,"  said  he  ;  "  aud  why 
can't  she  stay  ?" 

"  I  arn  perfectly  willing  she  should  take  care  of  little 
Ella,"  answered  the  previously  instructed  Mrs.  Deane,  who, 
in  a  measure,  shared  her  daughter's  ambitious  designs;  "  but 
it  must  be  done  here,  if  at  all.  I  can't  suffer  her  to  remaiu 
alone  with  those  gossiping  servants." 

"  Oh,  yes  !"  exclaimed  Eugenia,  speaking  as  if  this  were  the 
first  she  had  heard  of  it.  "  That  is  a  good  idea.  It  will  be 
delightful  to  have  the  dear  little  creature  here,  and  so  much 


68  DORA.    DEANE. 

better  for  her  too  in  case  of  croup,  or  anything  like  that,  to 
be  with  an  experienced  person  like  mother  1" 

"  But,"  said  Mr.  Hastings,  "  this  would  keep  Dora 
entirely  from  her  studies,  and  that  ought  not  to  be." 

'  It  need  not,"  hastily  interrupted  Eugenia.  "  She  can 
go  to  school  every  day,  for  nothing  will  give  me  greater 
pleasure  than  to  take  care  of  our  dear  Ella's  child  ;"  and 
the  pocket-handkerchief  went  up  to  her  face  to  conceal 
the  tears  which  might  have  been  there,  but  probably  were 
not. 

It  was  finally  arranged,  and  in  the  course  of  a  few  days 
the  parlor  of  Locust  Grove  was  echoing  sometimes  to  the 
laughter,  and  sometimes  to  the  screaming  of  Little  Ella 
Grey,  who,  from  some  unaccountable  freak  of  babyhood, 
conceived  a  violent  fancy  for  Eugenia,  to  whom  she  would 
go  quite  as  readily  as  to  Dora,  whose  daily  absence  at 
school  she  at  last  did  not  mind.  Regularly  each  day,  and 
sometimes  twice  a  day,  Mr.  Hastings  came  down  to  Locust 
Grove,  and  his  manner  was  very  kind  toward  Eugenia,  when 
he  found  her,  as  he  often  did,  with  his  baby  sleeping  in  her 
arms.  He  did  not  know  how  many  times,  at  his  approach,  it 
was  snatched  from  the  cradle  by  Eugenia,  who,  in  reality,  wa? 
not  remarkably  fond  of  baby-tending,  and  who,  in  the  absence 
of  the  father,  left  the  child  almost  wholly  to  the  care  of  her 
mother  and  sister.  Management,  however,  was  everything, 
and  fancying  she  had  found  the  shortest  avenue  to  Mr, 
Hastings's  heart,  she,  in  his  presence,  fondled,  and  petted, 
and  played  with  his  child,  taking  care  occasionally  to  hint 
of  neglect  on  the  part  of  Dora,  whom  he  now  seldom  saw, 
as,  at  the  hour  of  his  calling,  she  was  generally  in  school. 
It  was  by  such  means  as  this,  that  Eugenia  sought  to 
increase  Mr.  Hastings's  regard  for  herself,  and,  in  a  measure, 
Bhe  succeeded;  for  though  his  respect  for  Dora  wa?  undunin 


WAYS    AND    MEANS.  8» 

Ished,  he  could  not  conceal  from  himself  the  fact  that 
Eugenia  was  very  agreeable,  very  interesting,  and  very  kind 
to  kis  daughter ! 

As  the  autumn  advanced,  and  the  cold  rainy  weather 
prer.ln,i?d  out-door  exercise,  it  was  but  natural  that  he 
should  spend  much  of  his  time  at  Locust  Grove,  where  hia 
tastes  were  carefully  studied,  bis  favorite  books  read,  and 
his  favorite  authors  discussed,  while  Eugenia's  handsome 
black  eyes  smiled  a  welcome  when  he  came,  and  drooped 
pensively  beneath  her  long  eyelashes  when  he  went  away. 
Thus  the  autumn  and  the  winter  passed,  and  when  the 
spring  had  come,  the  village  of  Dunwood  was  rife  with 
rumors  concerning  the  attraction  which  drew  Mr.  Hastings 
so  often  to  Locust  Grove  ;  some  sincerely  pitying  him  if, 
indeed,  he  entertained  a  serious  thought  of  making  Eugenia 
Deane  his  wife,  while  others  severely  censured  him  for  having 
so  soon  forgotten  one  whose  grave  had  not  been  made  a 
twelvemonth.  But  he  had  not  forgotten,  and  almost  every 
hour  of  his  life  was  her  loved  name  upon  his  lips,  and  the 
long  golden  tress  his  own  hand  had  severed  from  her  head 
was  guarded  as  his  choicest  treasure,  while  the  dark  hours 
of  the  night  bore  witness  to  his  lonely  grief.  And  it  was  to 
escape  this  loneliness — to  forget  for  a  brief  time  the  sad 
memories  of  the  past — that  he  went  so  often  to  Locust 
Grove,  where  as  yet  his  child  was  the  greater  attraction, 
though  he  could  not  be  insensible  to  the  charms  of  Eugenia, 
who  spared  no  pains  to  interest  him  in  herself. 

lie  was  passionately  fond  of  music,  and  many  an  hour 
eha  sat  patiently  at  the  piano,  seeking  to  perfect  herself  in 
a  difficult  piece,  with  which  she  thought  to  surprise  him. 
But  nothing,  however  admirably  executed,  could  sound  weli 
upon  her  old-fashioned  instrument,  and  how  to  procure  a 
new  one  was  the  daily  subject  of  her  meditations.  Occa- 


»0  DORA    DEANE. 

Eioually,  as  she  remembered  the  beautiful  rosewood  piano 
standing  useless  and  untouched  in  the  parlors  of  Rose  Hill, 
something  whispered  her  to  "  wait  and  it  would  yet  be  hers." 
But  this  did  not  satisfy  her  present  desire,  for  aside  from 
the  sweet  sounds,  with  which  she  hoped  to  entrance  Mr. 
Hastings,  was  the  wish  to  make  him  think  them  much 
wealthier  than  they  were.  From  one  or  two  circumstances, 
she  had  gathered  the  impression  that  he  thought  them  poor, 
and,  judging  him  by  herself,  she  fancied  her  chances  for 
becoming  Mrs.  Hastings  2d,  would  be  greatly  increased  if 
by  any  means  he  could  be  made  to  believe  her  comparatively 
rich.  As  one  means  of  effecting  this,  she  must  and  would 
have  a  new  piano,  costing  not  less  than  four  hundred  dol* 
lars.  But  how  to  procure  the  money  was  the  question  ;  the 
remittance  from  Uncle  Nat,  which  had  come  on  the  first  day 
of  January,  was  already  half  gone,  and  she  could  not,  as 
she  had  once  done  before,  make  Dora's  head  keep  her  out  of 
the  difficulty.  At  last,  a  new  idea  suggested  itself,  and 
springing  to  her  feet  she  exclaimed  aloud,  for  she  was  alone, 
"  I  have  it ;  strange  I  didn't  think  of  that  before.  I'll  write 
to  the  old  man,  and  tell  him  that  as  Dora  is  now  fifteen,  we 
would  gladly  send  her  away  to  school,  if  we  had  the  means, 
bat  our  expenses  are  so  great  it  is  impossible,  unless  the 
money  comes  from  him.  And  he'll  do  it  too,  the  old  miser  1 
• — for  in  his  first  letter  he  said  he  would  increase  the  allow 
ance  as  Dora  grew  older." 

Suiting  the  action  to  the  word,  she  drew  out  her  writing- 
desk,  and  commenced  a  letter  to  her  "dearest  Uncle 
Nathaniel,"  feelingly  describing  to  him  their  straitened 
circumstances,  and  the  efforts  of  herself  and  her  sister  to 
keep  the  family  in  necessaries,  which  they  were  enabled  to  do 
very  comfortably  with  the  addition  of  the  allowance  he  so 
generously  sent  them  every  year.  But  they  wished  now  to 


WAYS    AND    MEANS.  91 

Bend  Dora  to  school,  to  see  if  anything  could  be  made  of 
her  !  She  had  improved  latterly,  and  they  really  hoped  a 
change  of  scene  would  benefit  her.  For  Dora's  sake,  then, 
would  "  her  dear  uncle  be  so  kind  as  to  send  them,  on  the 
receipt  of  that  letter,  such  a  sum  as  he  thought  best.  If 
BO,  he  would  greatly  oblige  his  loving  niece." 

"  There  I  That  will  do,"  she  said,  leaning  back  in  her 
chair,  and  laughing  as  she  thought  what  her  mother  and 
Alice  would  say,  if  they  knew  what  she  had  done.  "  But 
they  needn't  know  it,"  she  continued  aloud,  "  until  the  money 
comes,  and  then  they  can't  help  themselves." 

Then  it  occurred  to  her  that  if  Dora  herself  were  to  send 
some  message,  the  coming  of  the  money  might  be  surer  ; 
and  calling  her  cousin  into  the  room,  she  said  : 

"  I  am  about  writing  to  old  Uncle  Nat — have  you  any 
word  or  anything  to  send  him  ?" 

"  Oh,  yes,"  answered  Dora.  "  Give  him  my  love,  and  tell 
him  how  much  I  wish  he  would  come  home — and  stay  !"  she 
added,  leaving  the  room,  and  soon  returning  with  a  lock  of 
soft  brown  hair,  which  she  laid  upon  the  table.  "  Give  him 
that,  and  tell  him  it  was  mother's." 

Had  a  serpent  started  suddenly  into  life  before  Eugenia, 
she  could  not  have  turned  whiter  than  she  did  at  the  sight 
of  that  hair.  It  brought  vividly  to  mind  the  shadowy  twilight, 
the  darkness  in  the  corners,  and  the  terror  which  came  over 
her  on  that  memorable  night,  when  she  had  thought  to  steal 
Dora's  treasure.  Soon  recovering  her  composure,  however, 
she  motioned  her  cousin  from  the  room,  and,  resuming  her 
pen,  said  to  herself,  "  I  sha'u't  write  all  that  nonsense  about 
bis  coming  home,  for  nobody  wants  him  here  ;  but  the  lovt 
and  the  hair  may  as  well  go." 

Then,  as  she  saw  how  much  of  the  latter  Dora  had 
brought,  she  continued,  "  There's  no  need  of  sending  all  this 


P2  DORA    DEANE. 

It  would  make  beautiful  Lair  ornaments,  and  I  mean  to 
keep  a  part  of  it ;  Dora  won't  care,  of  course,  and  I  shall 
tell  her." 

Dividing  off  a  portion  of  the  hair  for  her  own  use,  she 
laid  it  aside,  and  then  in  a  postscript  wrote,  "  Dora  sends"-  — 
here  she  paused  ;  and  thinking  that  "  Dora's  love  "  would 
please  the  old  man  too  much,  and  possibly  give  him  too 
favorable  an  opinion  of  his  niece,  she  crossed  out  the 
"sends,"  and  wrote,  "Dora  wishes  to  be  remembered  to 
you,  and  sends  for  your  acceptance  a  lock  of  her  mother's 
hair." 

Thus  was  the  letter  finished,  and  the  next  mail  which  left 
Dunwood  bore  it  on  its  way  to  India,  Eugenia  little  think 
ing  how  much  it  would  influence  her  whole  future  life. 


UNCIJ:  NAT. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

UNCLE   NAT 

IT  was  a  glorious  moonlight  night,  and,  like  gleams  of 
barnished  silver,  the  moonbeams  flashed  from  the  lofty 
domes  and  minarets  of  Calcutta,  or  shone  like  sparkling 
gems  on  the  sleeping  waters  of  the  bay.  It  was  a  night 
when  the  Hindoo  lover  told  his  tale  to  the  dusky  maiden  at 
his  side,  and  the  soldier,  wearing  the  scarlet  uniform,  talked 
to  his  blue-eyed  bride  of  the  home  across  the  waters,  which 
she  had  left  to  be  with  him. 

On  this  night,  too,  an  old  man  in  his  silent  room,  sat 
thinking  of  his  home  far  beyond  the  shores  of  "  Merrie  Eng« 
land."  Near  him  lay  a  letter,  Eugenia's  letter,  which  was 
just  received.  He  had  not  opened  it  yet,  for  the  sight  of 
it  had  carried  him  back  across  the  Atlantic  wave,  and 
again  he  saw,  in  fancy,  the  granite  hills  which  had  girded 
his  childhood's  home — the  rock  where  he  had  played — the 
tree  where  he  had  carved  his  name,  and  the  rushing  moun 
tain  stream,  which  ran  so  swiftly  past  the  red  house  in  the 
valley — the  home  where  he  was  born,  and  where  had  come 
to  him  the  heart  grief  which  had  made  him  the  strange, 
eccentric  being  he  was.  Thoughts  of  the  dead  were  with 
him,  too,  to-night,  and  with  his  face  buried  in  his  broad, 
rough  hands,  he  thought  of  her,  whose  winsome  smile  and 
gentle  ways  had  woven  around  his  heart  a  mighty  and 


94  DOHA    DEANK. 

undying  love,  such  as  few  men  ever  felt.  Of  Dora,  too,  he 
thought — Dora,  whom  he  had  never  seen,  and  his  heart 
yearned  towards  her  with  a  deep  tenderness,  because  his 
Fannie  had  been  her  mother. 

"  I  should  love  her,  I  know,"  he  said,  "  even  though  she 
were  cold-hearted  and  stupid  as  they  say  ;"  then,  as  he 
remembered  the  letter,  he  continued,  "  I  will  open  it,  for  it 
may  have  tidings  of  the  child." 

The  seal  was  broken,  the  letter  unfolded,  and  a  tress  of 
shining  hair  dropped  on  the  old  man's  hand,  clinging  lov 
ingly,  as  it  were,  about  his  fingers,  while  a  low,  deep  cry 
broke  the  stillness  of  the  room.  He  knew  it  in  a  moment — 
knew  it  was  Fannies  hair — the  same  he  had  so  oft  caressed 
when  she  was  but  a  little  girl  and  he  a  grown-up  man.  It 
was  Fannie's  hair,  come  to  him  over  laud  and  sea,  and  his 
eyes  grew  dim  with  tears,  which  rained  over  his  thin,  dark 
face  as  he  kissed  again  and  again  the  precious  boon,  dearer 
far  to  him  than  the  golden  ore  of  India.  "  Fannie's  hair  !" 
rery  softly  he  repeated  the  words,  holding  it  up  to  the 
moonlight,  and  then  turning  it  toward  the  lamp,  as  if  to 
assure  himself  that  he  really  had  it  in  his  possession. 
"  Why  was  it  never  sent  before  ?"  he  said  at  last,  "  or 
why  was  it  sent  at  all  ?"  and  taking  up  the  letter,  he  read 
it  through,  lingering  long  over  the  postscript,  and  grieving 
that  Dora's  message,  the  first  he  had  ever  received,  should 
be  comparatively  so  cold. 

"  Why  couldn't  she  have  sent  her  love  to  her  poor  old 
uncle,  who  has  nothing  in  the  wide,  wide  world  to  love  save 
this  one  lock  of  hair  1  God  bless  you,  Dora  Deane,  for 
Bending  that,"  and  again  he  raised  it  to  his  lips,  saying  as 
he  did  so,  "  And  she  shall  have  the  money,  too,  aye,  more 
than  Eugenia  asked  ;  one,  golden  dollar  for  every  golden  hair, 
will  be  a  meet  return  1"  And  the  old  man  laughed  aloud  al 


UNCLE    NAT.  98 

the  novel  idea,  which  no  one  but  himself  would  have  con 
ceived. 

It  was  a  long,  weary  task,  the  counting  of  those  hairs ; 
for  more  than  once,  when  he  paused  in  his  work  to  think  of 
her  whose  head  they  once  adorned,  he  forgot  how  many 
had  been  told,  and  patiently  began  again,  watching  care 
fully,  through  blinding  tears,  to  see  that  none  were  lost,  for 
he  would  not  that  one  should  escape  him.  It  was  strange 
how  childish  the  strong  man  became,  counting  those  threads 
of  hair  ;  and  when  at  last  the  Jabor  was  completed,  he 
wept  because  there  were  no  more.  Fifteen  hundred  dollars 
seemed  too  small  a  sum  to  pay  for  what  would  give  him  so 
much  joy  ;  and  he,  mourned  that  the  tresj>  had  not  been 
larger,  quite  as  much  as  did  Eugenia,  when  she  heard  of 
his  odd  fancy. 

The  moon  had  long  since  ceased  to  shine  on  the  sleeping 
city,  and  day  was  breaking  in  the  east,  ere  Nathaniel 
Deane  arose  from  the  table  where  he  had  sat  the  livelong 
night,  gloating  over  his  treasure,  and  writing  a  letter  which 
now  lay  upon  the  table.  It  was  addressed  to  Dora,  and  in 
it  he  told  her  what  he  had  done,  blessing  her  for  sending 
him  that  lock  of  hair,  and  saying  that  the  sight  of  it  made 
his  withered  heart  grow  young  and  green  again,  as  it  waa 
in  the  happy  days  when  he  so  madly  loved  her  mother. 
Then  he  told  her  how  he  yearned  to  behold  her,  to  look 
upon  her  face  and  see  which  she  was  like,  her  father  or 
her  mother.  Both  were  very  dear  to  him,  and  for  their 
sake  he  loved  their  child. 

"  No  one  will  ever  call  me  father  ,n  he  wrote,  "  and  I  am 
knely  in  my  Indian  home,  lined  all  over,  as  it  is,  with  gold, 
and  sometimes,  Dora,  since  I  have  heard  of  you,  orphaned 
thus  early,  I  have  thought  I  would  return  to  A.merica,  and 
seeking  out  some  pleasant  spot,  would  build  a  home  for 


96  DORA    DEANE. 

you  and  me.  And  this  I  would  do,  were  I  sure  that  I  wap 
wanted  there — that  you  would  be  happier  with  me  than 
with  your  aunt  and  cousins.  Are  they  kind  to  you,  my 
child  ?  Sometimes,  in  my  reveries,  I  have  fancied  they 
if  ere  not — have  dreamed  of  a  girlish  face,  with  locks  like 
that  against  which  my  old  heart  is  beating,  and  eyes  of  deep 
dark  blue,  looking  wistfully  at  me,  across  the  waste  of 
waters,  and  telling  me  of  cruel  neglect  and  indifference. 
Were  this  indeed  so,  not  all  India  would  keep  me  a  moment 
from  your  side. 

"  Write  to  me,  Dora  and  tell  me  of  yourself,  that  I  may 
judge  something  of  your  character.  Tell  me,  too,  if  you 
ever  think  of  the  lonesome  old  man,  who,  each  night  of  his 
life,  remembers  you  it  his  prayers,  asking  that  if  on  earth 
he  may  never  look  on  Fannies  child,  he  may  at  last  meet 
and  know  her  in  the  better  land.  And  now  farewell,  my 
daughter,  mine  by  adoption,  if  from  no  other  cause. 

"  Write  to  me  soon,  and  tell  me  if  at  home  there  is  one 
who  would  kindly  welcome  back 

"  Your  rough  old 

"UNCLE  NAT." 

"She'll  answer  that,"  the  old  man  said,  as  he  read  it 
over.  "She'll  tell  me  to  come  home,"  and,  like  a  very 
child,  his  heart  bounded  with  joy  as  he  thought  of  breath 
ing  again  the  air  of  the  western  world. 

The  letter  was  sent,  and  with  it  we,  too,  will  return  to 
America,  and  going  backward  for  a  little,  take  up  our  story 
»t  a  period  three  months  subsequent  to  the  time  when  Eu 
genia  wrote  to  Uncle  Nat. 


MANAGEMENT. 


CHAPTER    XIV. 

MANAGEMENT. 

ONE  year  had  passed  away  since  the  night  wnen  Ella 
Hastings  died,  and  alone  in  his  chamber  the  husband  was 
musing  of  the  past,  and  holding,  as  it  were,  communion  with 
the  departed,  who  seemed  this  night  to  be  so  near  that  once 
he  said  aloud,  "  Ella,  are  you  with  me  now  ?"  But  to  his 
call  there  came  no  answer,  save  the  falling  of  the  summer 
rain  ;  and  again,  with  his  face  upon  the  pillow,  just  as  it 
had  lain  one  year  ago,  he  asked  himself  if  to  the  memory  of 
the  dead  he  had  thus  long  been  faithful  ;  if  no  thought  of 
another  had  mingled  with  his  love  for  her  ;  and  was  it  to 
ascertain  this  that  she  had  come  back  to  him  to-night,  for 
he  felt  that  she  was  there,  and  again  he  spoke  aloud,  "  I 
have  not  forgotten  you,  darling  ;  but  I  ara  lonesome,  oh,  so 
lonesome,  and  the  world  looks  dark  and  drear.  Lay  your 
hand  upor  my  heart,  dear  Ella,  and  you  will  feel  its  weight 
of  pain." 

But  why  that  sudden  lifting  of  the  head,  as  if  a  spirit 
hand  had  indeed  touched  him  with  its  icy  fingers  ?  Howard 
Hastii.gs  was  not  afraid  of  the  dead,  and  it  was  not  this 
which  made  him  start  so  nervously  to  his  feet.  His  ear  had 
caught  the  sound  of  a  light  footstep  in  the  hall  below,  and 
coming  at  that  hour  of  a  stormy  night,  it  startled  him,  for 
he  remembered  that  the  outer  door  had  been  left  unlocked 

5 


98  DORA    DEANS. 

Nearer  and  nearer  it  came,  up  the  winding  stairs,  and  on 
through  the  silent  hall,  until  it  reached  the  threshold  of  his 
chamber,  where  it  ceased,  while  a  low  voice  spoke  his 
name. 

In  an  instant  he  was  at  the  door,  standing  face  to  face 
with  Dora  Deane,  whose  head  was  uncovered,  and  whos» 
hair  was  drenched  with  the  rain. 

"Dora,"  he  exclaimed,  "how  came  you  here  and  where 
fore  have  you  come  ?" 

"  Your  child  1"  was  her  only  answer,  and  in  another  mo 
ment  he,  too,  was  out  in  the  storm  with  Dora  Deane,  whose 
hand  he  involuntarily  took  in  his,  as  if  to  shield  her  from 
the  darkness. 

In  a  few  words  she  told  him  how  she  had  been  aroused 
from  her  sleep  by  her  aunt,  who  said  the  baby  was  dying 
with  the  croup ;  that  the  servant  was  timid  and  refused  to 
go  either  for  him  or  the  physician,  and  so  she  had  come 
herself. 

"  And  were  you  not  afraid  ?"  he  asked  ;  and  the  heroic 
girl  answered,  "  No  ;  I  fancied  Ella  was  with  me,  cheering 
me  on,  and  I  felt  no  fear." 

Mr.  Hastings  made  no  reply,  but,  when  he  reached  the 
house,  and  saw  the  white,  waxen  face  of  the  child,  he  felt 
that  Ella  had  indeed  been  near  to  him  that  night  ;  that  she 
had  come  for  her  little  one,  who,  with  a  faint,  moaning  cry, 
etretched  its  hands  towards  Dora,  as  she  entered  the  room. 
And  Dora  took  it  in  her  arms,  holding  it  lovingly  there, 
until  the  last  painful  struggle  was  over,  and  the  father, 
standing  near,  knew  that  wife  and  child  had  met  together 
in  heaven. 

\t  the  foot  of  the  garden,  beneath  the  evergreens,  where 
he  had  wished  to  lay  his  other  Ella,  they  buried  the  little 
girl,  and  then  Howard  Hastings  was,  indeed,  alone  in  the 


MANAGEMENT.  99 

World — alone  in  lus  great  house,  which  seemed  doubly  deso 
late  now  that  all  were  gone.  For  many  weeks  he  did  not 
go  to  Locust  Grove,  but  remained  in  his  quiet  rooms,  brood 
ing  over  his  grief,  and  going  often  to  the  little  grave  be 
neath  the  evergreens.  There,  once,  at  the  hour  of  sunset, 
lie  found  Eugenia  Deane  planting  flowers  above  his  sleeping 
child  !  She  had  marvelled  much  that  he  staid  so  long 
away,  and  learning  that  the  sunset  hour  was  always  spent 
in  the  garden,  she  had  devised  a  plan  for  meeting  him.  It 
succeeded,  and  with  well-feigned  embarrassment  she  was 
hurrying  away,  when  he  detained  her,  bidding  her  tarry 
while  he  told  her  how  much  he  thanked  her  for  her  kindness 
to  his  child. 

"  I  have  wished  to  come  to  Locust  Grove,"  he  said,  "  and 
thank  you  all,  but  I  could  not,  for  there  is  now  no  baby 
face  to  greet  me." 

"  But  there  are  those  there  still  who  would  welcome  you 
with  pleasure,"  softly  answered  Eugenia  ;  and  then  with 
her  dark  eyes  sometimes  on  the  ground  and  sometimes  look 
ing  very  pityingly  on  him,  she  acted  the  part  of  a  consoler, 
telling  him  how  much  better  it  was  for  the  child  to  be  at 
rest  with  its  mother. 

And  while  she  talked,  darkness  fell  upon  them,  so  that 
Howard  Hastings  could  not  see  the  look  of  triumph  which 
the  dark  eyes  wore  when  he  said,  "  You  must  not  go  home 
alone,  Miss  Deane.  Let  me  accompany  you." 

So  the  two  went  together  very  slowly  down  the  long 
avenue,  and  when  over  an  imaginary  stone  the  fair  Eugenia 
stumbled,  the  arm  of  Howard  Hastings  was  offered  for  her 
support,  and  then  more  slowly  still  they  continued  on  their 
way.  From  that  time  Mr.  Hastings  was  often  at  Eugenia's 
side,  and  before  the  autumn  was  gone,  he  had  more  than 
once  been  told  she  was  to  be  his  wife.  And  each  time  that 


400  DORA    DEAXE. 

he  Iieard  it,  it  affected  him  less  painfully,  until  at  last  he 
himself  began  to  wonder  how  it  were  possible  for  him  ever 
to  have  disliked  and  distrusted  a  person  so  amiable,  so  intel 
ligent  and  so  agreeable  as  Eugenia  Deane  !  Still  he  could 
never  quite  satisfy  himself  that  he  loved  her,  for  there  was 
omethiug  which  always  came  up  before  him  whenever  he 
Beriously  thought  of  making  her  his  wife.  This  something 
he  could  not  define,  but  when,  as  he  sometimes  did,  he 
fancied  Eugenia  the  mistress  of  his  house,  there  was  always 
in  the  background  the  form  of  Dora  Deane,  gliding  noise 
lessly  about  him,  as  she  did  that  night  when  first  she  came 
to  Rose  Hill.  He  saw  but  little  of  her  now,  for  whenever 
he  called,  Eugenia  managed  to  keep  from  the  room  both 
mother,  sister  and  cousin,  choosing  to  be  alone  with  the 
handsome  widower,  who  lingered  late  and  lingered  long, 
dreading  a  return  to  his  lonely  home. 

Eugenia  was  now  daily  expecting  an  answer  to  her  letter, 
and  feeling  sure  that  it  would  bring  the  money,  she  began 
to  talk  to  Mr.  Hastings  of  her  new  piano,  playfully  remark 
ing,  that  as  he  was  a  connoisseur  in  such  matters,  she  be 
lieved  she  should  call  on  him  to  aid  in  her  selection  ;  and 
this  he  promised  to  do,  thinking  the  while  of  the  unused 
instrument  in  his  deserted  parlor,  and  feeling  strongly 
tempted  to  offer  her  its  use.  Thus  the  weeks  passed  on, 
while  Eugenia  became  more  and  more  impatient  for  the  letter. 

"  It  is  an  age  since  I  had  anything  from  the  post-office. 
I  wish  you'd  call  and  inquire,"  she  said  to  Dora  one  after 
noon,  as  she  saw  her  preparing  to  go  out. 

Scarcely  was  she  gone,  however,  when,  remembering  some 
thing  which  she  wanted,  and,  thinking  she  might  possiblv 
meet  with  Mr.  Hastings,  she  started  for  the  village  herself! 
reaching  the  office  door  just  as  Dora,  accompanied  by  Mr 
Hastings,  was  crossing  the  street  in  the  same  lirection. 


MANAGEMENT.  101 

"  I  shan't  have  to  go  in  now,"  said  Dora  ;  and,  fancying 
her  companion  would  prefer  waiting  for  her  cousin  to  walk 
ing  with  her,  she  passed  on,  all  unconscious  of  what  she  had 
lost  by  being  a  minute  too  late. 

"  A  letter  from  Uncle  Nat — directed  to  Dora,  too  1"  and 
Eugenia  grew  alternately  red  and  white,  as,  crushing  the 
missive  into  her  pocket,  she  went  out  into  the  street,  where 
she  was  joined  by  Mr.  Hastings. 

"Dora  left  me  rather  unceremoniously,"  said  he,  as  he 
bade  her  good  evening,  "  and  so  I  waited  to  walk  with 
you." 

But  Eugenia  could  not  appear  natural,  so  anxious  was  she 
to  know  what  the  letter  contained.  Up  to  the  very  gate 
Mr.  Hastings  went,  but  for  once  she  did  not  ask  him  to 
stop  ;  and  he  turned  away,  wondering  at  her  manner,  and 
feeling  a  little  piqued  at  her  unusual  coolness.  Hastening 
to  her  chamber,  and  crouching  near  the  window,  Eugenia 
tore  open  Dora's  letter,  and  clutching  eagerly  at  the  draft, 
almost  screamed  with  delight  when  she  saw  the  amount. 
FIFTEEN  HUNDRED  DOLLARS  !  She  could  scarcely  believe  her 
senses  ;  and  drawing  still  nearer  the  window,  for  the  day 
light  was  fading  fast,  she  sought  for  the  reasou  of  this 
unexpected  generosity.  But  the  old  man's  childish  fancy, 
which  would  have  touched  a  heart  less  hard  than  hers, 
aroused  only  her  deepest  ire — not  because  he  had  counted 
out  the  hairs,  but  because  there  had  not  been  more  to 
count.  Bounding  to  her  feet  in  her  wrath,  she  exclaimed, 
"  Fool  that  I  was,  to  have  withheld  one,  when  the  old 
dotard  would  have  paid  for  it  so  richly.  But  it  cannot  now 
be  helped,"  she  continued,  and  resuming  her  seat,  she  read 
the  letter  through,  exploding  but  once  more,  and  that  at 
the  point  where  Uncle  Nat  had  spoken  of  returning,  asking 
if  there  was  one  who  would  welcome  him  hoine. 


102  DORA    DEAXE. 

"  Gracious  heavens  !"  she  exclaimed,  growing  a  littlfl 
faint.  "  Wouldn't  I  be  in  a  predicament  ?  But  it  shall 
never  be,  if  I  can  prevent  it,  and  I  fancy  I  can.  As  Dora 
will  not  read  this  letter,  it  is  not  reasonably  to  be  expected 
that  she  will  answer  it,  and  it  will  be  some  time,  I  imagine, 
before  /  invite  him  to  come  and  see  if  we  are  kind  to  her  I 
What  a  childish  old  thing  he  must  be,  to  pay  so  much  for 
one  little  lock  of  hair  1  I'd  send  him  all  of  mine,  if  I 
thought  it  would  bring  me  fifteen  hundred  dollars." 

It  did  seem  a  large  sum  to  her,  that  fifteen  hundred  dol 
lars,  more  than  she  dared  to  appropriate  to  herself ;  but  the 
piano  she  was  determined  to  have,  and,  as  she  dreaded  what 
her  mother  might  say,  she  resolved  upon  keeping  the  letter 
a  secret  until  the  purchase  was  made,  and  then  Mrs.  Deane 
could  not  do  otherwise  than  indorse  the  draft,  and  let  her 
have  the  money. 

They  had  been  talking  of  going  to  Rochester  for  some 
time  past,  and  if  she  could  manage  to  have  Mr.  Hastings  go 
with  her,  she  could  leave  her  mother  at  the  hotel,  or  dispose 
of  her  elsewhere,  while  she  went  with  him  to  the  music 
rooms,  and  made  the  selection.  As  if  fortune  were,  indeed, 
favoring  her,  Mr.  Hastings  called  the  next  night,  and  they 
were,  as  usual,  left-  together  alone.  She  was  looking  uncom 
monly  well  this  evening  ;  and  as  she  saw  how  often,  and 
how  admiringly  his  eyes  rested  upon  her,  hope  whispered 
that  the  prize  was  nearly  won.  After  conversing  awhile  on 
different  subjects,  she  spoke  of  her  new  piano,  asking  him  if 
he  remembered  his  promise  of  assisting  her  in  a  selection, 
and  saying  she  thought  of  going  to  the  city  some  day  that 
week.  Again  Mr.  Hastings  remembered  the  beautiful  rose 
wood  instrument,  whose  tones  had  been  so  long  unheard  in 
bis  silent  home,  and  he  said,  "  Do  you  not  like  Ella's  piano  ?" 
while  a  feeling,  shadowy  and  undefined,  stole  over  him,  that 


MANAGEMENT.  103 

possibly  it  might,  some  day,  be  hers  ;  and  Eugenia,  divining 
his  thoughts,  answered  artfully,  "  Oh,  very  much.  I  used 
to  enjoy  hearing  dear  Elia  play,  but  that  don't  do  me  any 
good.  It  isn't  mine,  you  know." 

Very  softly  and  tenderly  the  beautiful  black  eyes  looked 
Into  his,  and  the  voice  was  low  and  gentle,  as  it  breathed 
the  sacred  name  of  Ella.  It  was  the  hour  of  Howard 
Hastings's  temptation;  and,  scarce  knowing  what  he  did,  he 
essayed  to  speak — to  offer  her  ^the  piano,  whose  keys  had 
been  so  often  touched  by  the  fairy  fingers,  now  folded  away 
beneath  the  winter  snow.  But  his  lips  refused  to  move  ; 
there  was  a  pressure  upon  them,  as  if  a  little  hand  were  laid 
upon  his  mouth  to  prevent  the  utterance  of  words  he  had 
better  far  not  speak.  Thus  was  he  saved,  and  when  Eugenia, 
impatient  at  his  delay,  cast  towards  him  an  anxious  glance, 
she  saw  that  his  thoughts  were  not  of  her,  and,  biting  her 
lips  with  vexation,  she  half  petulantly  asked,  "  if  he  had 
any  intention  of  going  to  the  city  that  week  ?" 

"  Yes — no — certainly,"  said  he,  starting  up  as  if  from  a 
deep  reverie.  Then,  as  he  understood  what  was  wanted  of 
him,  he  continued,  "  excuse  me,  Miss  Deane.  I  was  think 
ing  of  Ella,  and  the  night  when  she  died.  What  were  you 
saying  of  Eochester  ?  I  have  business  there  to-morrow,  and 
if  you  go  down,  I  will  aid  you  all  I  can.  By  the  way,"  he 

soutinued,  "  that  is  the  night  of 's  grand  concert.  How 

would  you  like  to  attend  it  ?" 

"  Oh,  so  much  1"  answered  Eugenia,  her  fine  eyes  spark 
ling  with  delight. 

"  But  stop,"  said  he,  "  now  I  think  of  it,  I  have  an  en^ 
garment  which  may  possibly  prevent  me  from  attending  it, 
as  I  would  like  to  do  with  you,  for  I  know  you  would  enjoy 
it.  Still,  it  may  be  that  I  can,  and  if  so,  I'll  call  for  you  at 
the  hotel.  We  can  come  home  on  the  eleven  o'clock  train.1 


104  DORA    DEANE. 

So,  ere  Mr.  Hastings  departed,  it  was  arranged  that 
Eugenia  and  her  mother  should  next  morning  go  dowr  with 
him  to  the  city,  and  that  in  the  evening  he  would,  perhaps, 
accompany  them  to  the  concert. 

"  I  am  progressing  fast,"  thought  Eugenia,  as  she  sat 
alone  in  her  chamber  that  night,  after  Alice  had  retired,  "  but 
still  I  wish  he'd  come  to  the  point,  and  not  keep  me  in  such 
suspense.  I  thought  once  he  was  going  to,  and  I  believe  now 
he  would  if  he  hadn't  gone  to  thinking  of  Ella,  and  all  that 
nonsense  ;  but  never  mind,  he's  worth  waiting  for,  with  his 
fine  house  and  immense  wealth  ;  I  shan't  care  so  much 
about  Uncle  Nat's  money  then,  though  goodness  knows  I 
don't  want  him  turning  up  here  some  day  and  exposing  me, 
as  I  dare  say  the  meddlesome  old  thing  would  do." 

This  reminded  her  of  the  letter,  and,  as  Alice  was  asleep, 
she  thought  this  as  favorable  an  opportunity  for  answering 
it  as  she  would  probably  have.  Opening  her  writing-desk, 
and  taking  her  pen,  she  framed  a  reply,  the  substance  of 
which  was,  that  ma,  Alice  and  hersdj  were  very,  very  thank 
ful  to  her  dear  uncle  for  his  generous  gift  to  Dora,  who, 
strange  to  say,  manifested  no  feeling  whatever  ! 

"  If  she  is  grateful,"  wrote  Eugenia,  "  she  does  not  show 
it  in  the  least.  I  hardly  know  what  to  make  of  her,  she's 
BO  queer.  Sometime,  perhaps,  she  will  appreciate  your 
goodness,  and  meanwhile,  rest  fissured  that  I  will  see  that 
your  gift  is  used  to  the  best  advantage." 

Not  a  word  of  coming  home  to  the  expectant  old  man, 
whose  heart  each  day  grew  lighter  as  he  thought  of  the 
letter  which  Dora  would  write  bidding  him  to  come  to  the 
friends  who  would  welcome  him  back.  Not  one  line  from 
Dora  to  the  kind  uncle  who,  when  he  read  the  cruel  lines, 
laid  his  weary  head  upon  his  pillow  and  wept  bitterly  that 
this,  his  last  fond  hope,  was  crushed  I 


MANAGEMENT.  lot 

There  is  such  a  thing  as  Retribution,  and  Eugenia  Deane, 
Bitting  there  alone  that  night,  shuddered  as  the  word 
seemed  whispered  in  her  ear.  But  it  could  not  deter  her 
from  her  purpose.  Howard  Hastings  must  be  won.  "  The 
object  to  be  gained  was  worthy  of  the  means  used  to  gain 
it,"  she  thought,  as  she  sealed  the  letter  ;  then,  placing  the 
draft  for  the  $1,500  safely  in  her  purse,  she  crept  softly  to 
bed,  sleeping  ere  long  as  soundly  as  if  the  weight  of  a 
guilty  conscience  bad  nerer  rested  upon  her. 


;o«  DORA    DEANfi. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

fHK       NEW     PIANO. 

THE  next  morning,  at  the  appointed  time,  Mr.  Hast 
ings,  Mrs.  Dcane  and  her  daughter  stood  together  in  the 
Dunwood  Depot,  awaiting  the  arrival  of  the  train.  Eu 
genia  was  in  high  spirits,  chatting  gaily  with  Mr.  Hastings, 
whose  manner  was  so  unusually  lover-like,  that  more  than 
one  looker-on  smiled  meaningly,  as  they  saw  how  very  at 
tentive  he  was.  On  reaching  the  city  he  parted  from  the 
ladies  for  a  time,  telling  Eugenia,  as  he  bade  her  good 
morning,  that  he  should  probably  not  see  her  again  until 
about  three  o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  when  he  would  meet 
her  at  the  music-rooms. 

"  Meet  you  at  the  music-rooms  for  what  ?"  asked  Mrs. 
Deane,  who,  though  she  had  frequently  heard  her  daughter 
talking  of  a  new  piano,  had  never  for  a  moment  believed 
her  to  be  in  earnest. 

"  What  do  you  suppose  he  would  meet  mo  for,  unless  it 
were  to  look  at  pianos  ?"  answered  Eugenia,  and  her  mother 
replied,  "  Look  at  pianos  I  A  great  deal  of  good  that  will 
do,  I  imagine,  when  both  of  us  together  have  but  twenty- 
five  dollars  in  the  world  1" 

A  curious  smile  flitted  over  Eugenia's  face,  as  she  though  I 
of  the  draft,  but  she  merely  replied,  "And  suppose  wo 
hnven't  any  money,  can't  I  make  Idiece,  and  by  looking  at 


THE    NEW    PIANO.  101 

expensive  instruments  induce  Mr.  Hastings  to  think  we  are 
richer  than  we  are  ?  I  don't  accuse  him  of  being  at  all 
mercenary,  but  I  do  think  he  would  have  proposed  ere  this, 
if  he  hadn't  thought  us  so  wretchedly  poor." 

Mrs.  Deane  could  not  understand  how  merely  looking  at  a 
eostly  piano  indicated  wealth  ;  but  feeling  herself  consider 
able  interest  in  her  daughter's  success,  she  concluded  to  let 
her  pursue  her  own  course,  and  the  subject  was  not  resumed 
again  until  afternoon,  when,  having  finished  their  shopping, 
they  sat  alone  in  a  private  room,  opening  from  the  public 
hall,  and  opposite  the  ladies'  parlor  in  the  hotel.  They  had 
taken  this  room,  because  in  case  she  attended  the  concert, 
Eugenia  would  wish  to  rearrange  her  hair,  and  make  some 
little  change  in  her  personal  appearance.  "  Then,  too,  when 
Mr.  Hastings  came,"  she  said,  "  they  would  be  by  them 
selves,  and  not  have  everybody  listening  to  what  they  said. 
By  the  way,  mother,"  she  continued,  as  she  stood  before  the 
glass,  "  if  Mr.  Hastings  can  attend  the  concert,  suppose  you 
go  home  at  half-past  six.  You  don't  care  for  singing,  you 
know,  and  besides  that,  you  stumble  so  in  the  dark,  that  it 
will  be  so  much  pleasanter  for  Mr.  Hastings  to  have  but  one 
in  charge." 

"  And  much  pleasanter  for  you,  too,  to  be  alone  with 
him,"  suggested  Mrs.  Deane,  who  really  cared  but  little  for 
music,  and  was  the  more  willing  to  accede  to  Eugenia's  pro 
posal." 

"  Why,  yes,"  answered  the  young  lady.  "  I  think  it 
would  be  pleasanter — so  if  he  says  he  can  accompany  me, 
you  go  home,  like  a  dear  good  old  woman  as  you  are."  And 
tying  on  her  bonnet,  Eugenia  went  out  to  keep  her  appoint 
ment,  finding  Mr.  Hastings  theri  before  her,  as  ehe  had 
expected. 

Several  expensive  pianos  were  examined,  and  a  selection 


L08  UOiiA    DEANE. 

ut  last  made  of  a  very  handsome  one,  whose  cost  was  $450. 
"  I  care  but  little  what  price  I  pay,  if  it  only  suits  me,"  said 
Eugenia,  with  the  air  of  one  who  had  the  wealth  of  the 
Indies  at  her  disposal.  "  You  will  see  that  it  is  carefully 
boxed  and  sent  to  Duuwood,  will  you  not  ?"  she  continued, 
turning  to  the  man  in  attendance,  who  bowed  respectfully, 
and  stood  waiting  for  the  money,  while  Mr.  Hastings,  too,  it 
may  be,  wondered  a  very  little  if  it  would  be  forthcoming. 
•*  I  did  not  know  certainly  as  I  should  make  a  purchase," 
continued  Eugenia,  "  so  I  left  the  money  with  mother  at  the 
hotel  :  I  will  bring  it  directly  ;"  and  she  tripped  gracefully 
out  of  the  store,  followed  by  Mr.  Hastings,  who  felt  almost 
as  if  he  had  done  wrong  in  suffering  her  to  buy  a  new  piano, 
when  Ella's  would  have  suited  her  quite  as  well,  and  -the 
name  upon  it,  "  E.  Hastings,"  would  make  no  difference  ! 

Once,  in  the  street,  he  thought  to  say  something  like  thia 
to  her  and  prevent  the  purchase,  but  again  an  unseen  hand, 
as  it  were,  sealed  his  lips  ;  and  when  he  spoke,  it  was  to  tell 
her  that  he  could  probably  escort  her  to  the  concert, 
and  would  see  her  again  about  dark.  Here  having  reached 
the  hotel,  he  left  her,  and  walked  on  a  short  distance,  when, 
remembering  something  concerning  the  concert,  which  ho 
wished  to  tell  her,  he  turned  back,  and,  entering  the  hotel, 
went  to  the  parlor,  where  he  expected  to  find  her.  But  she 
was  not  there,  and  thinking  she  had  gone  out  for  a  moment 
and  would  soon  return,  he  stepped  into  the  hall,  and  as  the 
day  was  rather  cold,  stood  over  the  register,  which  was  very 
near  Eugenia's  room.  He  had  been  there  but  an  instant, 
when  he  caught  the  sound  of  his  own  name,  and  looking  up, 
he  saw  that  the  ventilator  over  the  door  opposite  was  turned 
back,  so  that  everything  said  within,  though  spoken  in  a  low 
tone,  could  be  distinctly  heard  without.  It  was  Eugenia 
who  was  speaking,  and  not  wishing  to  listen,  he  was  aboui 


THE    NEW    PIANO.  101 

turning  away,  when  the  words  she  uttered  aroused  hia 
curiosity  and  chained  him  to  the  spot. 

They  were,  "  And  what  if  Mr.  Hastings  did  give  it  to  me? 
If  he  marries  me,  and  I  intend  that  he  shall,  'twill  make  no 
difference  whether  the  piano  was  bought  afterward  or  a 
little  in  advance.  He  knows,  or  ought  to  know,  that  I 
would  not  use  Ella's  old  one." 

"  But  has  he  ever  said  a  word  to  you  on  the  subject  of 
marriage?"  queried  Mrs.  Deane,  and  Eugenia  answered, 
".Not  directly,  perhaps,  but  he  has  had  it  in  his  mind  a 
hundi-ed  times,  I  dare  say.  But  pray  don't  look  so  distressed. 
I  never  knew  before  that  scheming  mothers  objected  to  their 
daughters  receiving  costly  presents  from  the  gentlemen  to 
whom  they  were  engaged." 

"  You  are  not  engaged,"  said  Mrs.  Deane,  and  Eugenia 
replied,  "  But  expect  to  be,  which  is  the  same  thing  ;"  then 
after  a  pause,  she  continued,  "  but,  jesting  aside,  Mr.  Has 
tings  did  not  buy  the  piano.  I  bought  it  myself  and  expect 
to  pay  for  it,  too,  that  is,  if  you  will  indorse  this  draft. 
Look  !"  and  she  held  to  view  the  draft,  of  which  Mrs.  Deanr 
was,  until  that  moment,  wholly  ignorant. 

Wiping  from  his  white  brow  the  heavy  drops  of  perspira 
tion  which  had  gathered  thickly  upon  it,  Mr.  Hastings 
attempted  to  •  leave  the  place,  but  the  same  hand  which 
twice  before  had  sealed  his  lips,  was  interposed  to  keep 
him  there,  and  he  stood  silent  and  immovable,  while  his  sur 
prise  and  indignation  increased  as  the  conversation  pro 
ceeded. 

.  In  great  astonishment  Mrs.  Deane  examined  the  draft, 
and  then  questioned  her  daughter  as  to  how  she  came  by 
it.  Very  briefly  Eugenia  told  of  the  letter  she  had  sent  her 
Uncle  Nat.  "  I  knew  there  was  no  surer  way  of  gaining  his 
good  will,"  said  she,  "  than  by  thrusting  Dora  in  his 


HO  DORA    DEANE. 

BO  I  asked  her  if  she  had  any  message,  and  she  sent  her 
love,  together  with  a  lock  of  her  mother's  hair,  which  I 
verily  believe  turned  the  old  fellow's  heart.  I  have  not  the 
letter  with  me  which  he  wrote  in  reply,  and  directed  to 
Dora,  but  it  was  a  sickish,  sentimental  thing,  prating  about 
his  love  for  her  mother,  and  how  much  he  prized  that  lock, 
which  he  said  he  would  pay  for  at  the  rate  of  one  dollar  a 
hair  !  And,  don't  you  believe,  the  silly  old  fool  sat  up  all 
night,  crying  over  and  counting  the  hairs,  which  amounted 
to  lifteeen  hundred  1  'Twould  have  been  more  if  I  hadn't 
foolishly  kept  back  some  for  hair  ornaments.  I  was  so  pro 
voked  I  could  have  thrown  them  in  the  fire." 

"  But  if  the  letter  was  directed  to  Dora,  how  came  you 
by  it  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Deane,  who,  knowing  Eugenia  as  well  as 
she  did,  was  still  wholly  unprepared  for  anything  like  this. 

"  'Twas  the  merest  chance  in  the  world,"  answered 
Eugenia,  stating  the  circumstance  by  which  the  letter  came 
into  her  possession,  and  adding  that  "  Mr.  Hastings  must 
have  thought  her  manner  that  night  very  strange  ;  but 
come,"  she  continued,  "  do  sign  your  name  quick,  so  I  can 
get  the  money  before  the  bank  closes." 

But  this  Mrs.  Deane  at  first  refused  to  do,  saying  it  was 
not  theirs,  and  Dora  should  no  longer  be  defrauded  ;  at  the 
same  time,  she  expressed  her  displeasure  at  Eugenia's  utter 
want  of  principle. 

"  Grown  suddenly  very  conscientious,  haven't  you  !"  scorn 
fully  laughed  the  young  lady,  reminding  her  of  the  remittance 
anually  sent  to  them  for  Dora's  benefit,  but  which  had  been 
unjustly  withheld  ;  "  very  conscientious  indeod  ;  but  I  am 
thankful  I  parted  company  with  that  commodity  long  ago. 

Then  followed  a  series  of  angry  words,  and  bitter  recrimi 
nations,  by  which  the  entire  history  of  Eugenia's  selfish 
treatment  of  her  cousin,  even  to  the  cutting  off  her  hair 


THE    NEW    PIANO.  Ill 

more  than  two  years  before,  was  disclosed  to  Mr.  Hastings, 
who.  immeasurable  shocked  and  sick  at  heart,  turned  away 
just  as  Mrs.  Deane,  to  avoid  further  altercation,  expressed 
her  readiness  to  indorse  the  draft,  on  condition  that  the 
balance  after  paying  for  the  piano,  should  be  set  aside  for 
Dora. 

"  And  haven't  I  told  you  repeatedly  that  the  piano  was  all 
1  wanted  ?  and  I  shouldn't  be  so  particularly  anxious  about 
that,  if  I  did  not  think  it  would  aid  me  in  securing  Mr.  Has 
tings." 

"Which  you  never  shall,  so  help  me  Heaven  I"  exclaimed 
the  indignant  man,  as  he  strode  noiselessly  down  the  hall, 
and  out  into  the  open  air,  where  he  breathed  more  freely, 
as  if  just  escaping  from  the  poisonous  atmosphere  of  the 
deadly  upas.  • 

It  would  be  impossible  to  describe  his  emotion,  as  he  walked 
on  through  one  street  after  another.  Astonishment,  rage,  hor 
ror,  and  disgust  each  in  turn  predominated,  and  were  at  last 
succeeded  by  a  deep  feeling  of  thankfulness  that  the  veil 
had  been  removed,  and  he  had  escaped  from  the  toils  of  one, 
who,  slowly  but  surely,  had  been  winding  herself  around  his 
fancy — he  would  not  say  affect  ions,  for  he  knew  he  had  never 
loved  her.  "  But  she  might  have  duped  me,"  he  said,  "  for  I 
am  but  human  ;"  and  then  as  he  thought  what  a  hardened, 
unprincipled  woman  she  was,  he  shuddered  aud  grew  faint 
at  the  mere  idea  of  taking  such  a  one  to  fill  the  place  of  his 
gentle,  loving  Ella.  "  I  cannot  meet  her  to-night,"  he  con 
tinued,  as  he  remembered  the  concert.  "  I  could  not 
endure  the  sound  of  her  voice,  for  I  should  say  that  to  her 
which  had  better  not  be  said.  I  will  go  home — back  to 
Dunwood,  leaving  her  to  wait  for  me  as  long  as  she  chooses." 

With  him,  to  will  was  to  do,  and  having  finished  his  busi 
ness,  he  started  for  the  depot,  whither  Mrs.  Deaue  had 


112  DORA    DEANE. 

preceded  him,  having  been  coaxed  by  Eugenia  to  return  at 
half  past  six,  and  thus  le;ve  her  the  pleasure  of  Mr.  Ha* 
tiugs's  company  alone.  The  piano  had  been  paid  for,  and  aa 
it  was  quite  dark,  and  beginning  to  rain,  the  now  amiable 
young  lady  accompanied  her  mother  to  the  depot,  and 
having  seen  her  safely  in  the  cars,  which  would  not  start  in 
some  minutes,  was  on  her  way  back  to  the  hotel,  her  mind 
too  intently  occupied  with  thoughts  of  coming  pleasure  to 
heed  the  man.  who,  with  dark  lowering  brow,  and  hat 
drawn  over  his  face,  met  her  on  the  sidewalk,  and  who  at 
sight  of  her  started  suddenly  as  if  she  had  been  a  crawling 
serpent. 

"  Will  the  Deanes  always  cross  my  path  ?"  he  exclaimed, 
as,  opening  the  car  door,  he  saw  near  the  stove  the  brown 
satin  hat  and  black  plumes  of  the  mother,  who  was  sitting 
with  her  back  towards  him,  and  consequently  was  not  aware 
•of  his  presence. 

To  find  a  seat  in  another  car  was  an  easy  matter,  and 
while  Eugenia,  at  the  hotel,  was  alternately  admiring  her 
self  in  the  glass,  and  peering  out  into  the  hall  to  see  if  he 
were  coming,  he  was  on  his  way  to  Dunwood,  breathing  more 
and  more  freely,  as  the  distance  between  them  increased. 

"  Yes,  I  have  escaped  her,"  he  thought,  and  mingled  with 
thankfulness  for  this,  was  a  deep  feeling  of  sympathy  for 
Dora,  to  whom  such  injustice  had  been  done. 

He  understood  perfectly  her  position — knew  exactly  the 
course  of  treatment,  which,  from  the  first,  she  had  received, 
and  while  trembling  with  anger,  he  resolved  that  it  should 
not  continue.  "I  can  help  her,  and  I  will,"  he  said  em 
phatically  ;  though  how,  or  by  what  means  he  could  not,  in 
his  present  state  of  excitement,  decide.  Arrived  at  Dun- 
wood,  he  stepped  hastily  from  the  car  and  walked  rapidlj 
down  the  street  until  he  came  opposite  Locust  Grove 


THE    NEW    PIANO.  Ill 

Then,  indeed  he  paused,  while  an  involuntary  shudder  ran 
through  his  frame  as  he  thought  of  the  many  hours  he  had 
epent  within  those  walls  with  one  who  had  proved  herself  un- 
F  Drthy  even  of  the  name  of  woman. 

"But  it  is  over  now,"  he  said,  "  and  when  I  cross  that 
threshold  again,  may  " 

The  sentence  was  unfinished,  for  a  light  flashed  suddenly  out 
npon  Lira,  and  a  scene  met  his  view  which  arrested  his  foot 
steps  at  once,  and,  raining  as  it  was,  he  leaned  back  against 
the  fence  and  gazed  at  the  picture  before  him.  The  shut 
ters  were  thrown  open,  and  through  the  window  was  plainly 
discernible  the  form  of  Dora  Deane,  seated  at  table, 
on  which  lay  a  book  which  she  seemed  to  be  reading. 
There  was  nothing  elegant  about  her  dress,  nor  did  How 
ard  Hastings  think  of  this  ;  his  mind  was  intent  upon  her 
who  had  been  so  cruelly  wronged,  and  whose  young  face, 
seen  through  the  window  on  that  winter  night,  looked  very 
fair,  so  fair  that  he  wondered  he  had  never  thought  before 
how  beautiful  was  Dora  Deane. 

At  this  point,  Mrs.  Deane,  who  had  been  slower  in  her 
movements,  reached  the  gate,  and,  resigning  his  post  near 
the  fence,  Mr.  Hastings  walked  slowly  home,  bearing  in  his 
mind  that  picture  of  Dora  Deane  as  he  saw  her  through 
the  window,  with  no  shadows  on  her  brow,  save  those  left 
there  by  early  grief,  and  which  rendered  her  face  still  more 
attractive  than  it  would  otherwise  have  been.  That  night, 
all  through  the  silent  hours,  there  shone  a  glimmering  light 
from  the  room  where  Howard  Hastings  sat,  brooding  upon 
what  he  had  heard,  and  meditating  upon  the  best  meana 
for  removing  Dora  from  the  influence  of  her  heartless  cousin. 
Slowly  over  him,  too,  came  memories  of  the  little  brown-faced 
girl  who,  when  his  home  was  cheerless,  had  come  to  him 
with  her  kindly  acts  and  gentle  ways,  diffusing  over  all  an  air 


114  DORA    DEANE. 

of  comfort  and  filling  his  home  with  sunlight.  Then  he  r» 
menjbered  that  darkest  hour  of  his  desolation — that  first  com 
ing  home  from  burying  his  dead  ;  and,  now  as  then  be  felt 
creeping  over  him  the  icy  chill  which  had  lain  upon  his  heart 
when  he  approached  the  house  whence  they  had  borne  hia 
fair  girl  wife.  But  he  had  found  her  there — Dora  Deane — 
folding  his  motherless  baby  to  her  bosom,  and  again  in  imagi 
nation  ho  met  the  soft  glance  of  her  eye  as  she  welcomed  him 
back  to  Ella's  room  which  seemed  not  half  so  lonely  with 
Dora  sitting  by  his  side.  Again  he  was  with  her  in  the  storm 
whicli  she  had  braved  on  that  night  when  his  child  lay  dying — 
the  child  whom  she  had  loved  so  much,  and  who  had  died 
upon  her  lap.  Anon,  this  picture  faded  too,  and  he  saw  her 
as  he  had  seen  her  but  a  few  hours  before — almost  a  woman 
now,  but  retaining  still  the  same  fair,  open  brow,  and  sunny 
smile  which  had  characterized  her  as  a  child.  And  this  was  the 
girl  whom  Eugenia  would  trample  down — would  misrepre 
sent  to  the  fond  old  uncle,  far  away.  "But  it  shall  never 
be/'  he  said  aloud  ;  "  I  will  remove  her  from  them  by  force 
if  need  be."  But  "  where  would  she  go  ?"  he  asked.  Then 
as  he  remembered  Ella's  wish  that  he  should  care  for  her — 
a  wish  which  his  foolish  fancy  for  Eugenia  had  for  a  time 
driven  from  his  mind,  he  felt  an  intense  longing  to  have  her 
there  with  him  ;  there,  in  his  home,  where  he  could  see  her 
every  day — not  as  his  wife,  for  at  that  time,  Howard  Hast 
ings  had  never  thought  it  possible  for  him  to  call  her  by 
that  name,  she  seemed  so  much  a  child  ;  but  she  should 
be  his  sister,  and  his  manly  heart  throbbed  with  delight,  as 
he  thought  how  he  would  watch  over  and  protect  her  from 
all  harm.  He  would  teach  her,  and  she  should  learn,  sit 
ting  at  his  feet  as  she  sat  two  years  before  ;  and  life 
would  seem  no  longer  sad  and  dreary,  for  he  would  have  a 
uleasant  home,  and  in  it  Dora  Deane !  Ere  long,  however, 


THE    NEW    PIANO.  115 

ftis  better  judgment  told  him  that  the  censoriousj  curious 
world  would  never  suffer  this  to  be  ;  she  couldn't  come  as  hit 
sister — she  couldnt  come  at  all — and  again  there  came  over  him 
a  sense  of  desolation,  as  if  he  were  a  second  time  bereaved. 

Slowly  and  steadily  the  rain  drops  pattered  against  the 
window  pane,  while  the  lamp  upon  the  table  burned  lower 
and  lower,  and  still  Mr.  Hastings  sat  there,  pondering 
another  plan,  to  which  he  could  see  no  possible  objection, 
provided  Mrs.  Deane's  consent  could  be  obtained  ;  "  and 
she  shall  consent,"  he  said,  "  or  an  exposure  of  her  daughter 
will  be  the  consequence." 

Then,  it  occurred  to  him,  that  in  order  to  succeed,  he  must 
fur  a  time  at  least  appear  perfectly  natural — must  continue 
to  visit  at  Locust  Grove,  just  as  he  had  been  in  the  habit 
of  doing — must  meet  Eugenia  face  to  face,  and  even  school 
himself  to  listen  to  the  sound  of  her  piano,  which  he  felt 
would  grate  so  harshly  on  his  ear.  And  all  this  he  could  do 
if  in  the  end  Dora  would  be  benefited. 

For  the  more  immediate  accomplishment  of  his  purpose, 
it  seemed  necessary  that  he  should  visit  New  York,  and  as, 
in  his  present  excitement,  he  could  not  rest  at  home,  he  de 
termined  upon  going  that  very  morning,  in  the  early  train. 
Pushing  back  the  heavy  drapery  which  shaded  the  window, 
he  saw  that  daylight  was  already  breaking  in  the  east,  and, 
after  a  few  hurried  preparations,  he  knocked  at  Mrs. 
Leah's  door,  and  telling  her  that  important  business  required 
his  presence  in  New  York,  whither  he  should  be  gone  a  few 
days,  he  started  for  the  depot,  just  as  the  sun  was  rising  ; 
and,  that  aight,  Mrs.  Elliott,  his  sister,  was  surprised  ta 
hear  that  he  was  in  the  parlor,  and  wished  to  see  her. 

"  Why,  Howard  1"  she  exclaimed,  as  she  entered  the  room. 
*nd  saw  how  pale  and  haggard  he  was,  "  what  is  the  mat 
ter,  and  why  have  you  come  upon  me  so  suddenly  ?" 

"  ]  have  come,  Louise,  for  aid,"  he  answered,  advancing 


/l«  DORA    DEANE. 

towards  her,  and  drawing  her  to  his  side.  "  Aid  for  an  in 
jnred  orphan.  Do  you  remember  Dora  Deane  ?" 

"  Perfectly  well,  answered  Mrs.  Elliott.  I  was  too  raue1 
interested  in  her  to  forget  her  soon.  Slla  wrote  me  that 
she  was  living  in  Dunwood,  and  when  next  I  visited  you,  I 
intended  seeking  her  out.  But  what  of  her,  and  how  3an  I 
befriend  her  ?" 

In  as  few  words  as  possible,  Mr.  Hastings  told  what  he 
knew  of  her  history  since  his  sister  saw  her  last,  withholding 
not  even  the  story  of  his  own  strange  fancy  for  Eugenia. 
"But  that  is  over,  thank  Heaven,"  he  continued  ;"  and 
now,  Louise,  you  must  take  Dora  to  live  with  you.  You 
have  no  child,  no  sister,  and  she  will  be  to  you  both  of  these. 
You  must  love  her,  educate  her,  make  her  just  such  a  wo 
man  as  you  are  yourself  ;  make  her,  in  short,  what  that  no 
ble-hearted  old  man  in  India  will  wish  her  to  be  when  he 
returns,  as  he  shall  do,  if  my  life  is  spared  ;  and  Louise,"  he 
added,  growing  more  and  more  earnest,  "  she  will  well  re 
pay  you  for  your  trouble.  She  brought  sunshine  to  my 
home  ;  she  will  bring  it  to  yours.  She  is  naturally  refined 
and  intelligent.  She  is  amiable,  ingenuous,  open-hearted, 
and  will  one  day  be  beautiful. 

"  And  you,  my  brother,  love  her  ?"  queried  Mrs.  Elliott, 
looking  him  steadily  in  his  face,  and  parting  the  thick,  black 
hair  from  off  his  high,  white  forehead. 

"  Love  her,  Louise  I"  he  answered,  "  I  lave  Dora  Deane  ! 
Why,  no.  Ella  loved  her,  the  baby  loved  her,  and  for  this 
I  will  befriend  her,  but  to  love  her,  I  never  thought  of  such  * 
thing  1"  and  walking  to  the  window,  he  looked  out  upou  the 
night,  repeating  to  himself,  "  Love. Dora  Deane!  I  woudsf 
what  put  that  idea  into  Louise's  braiu  ?" 

Returning  ere  long  to  his  seat,  he  resumed  the  conversa 
tion,  which  resulted  at  last  in  Mrs.  Elliott's  expressing  her 
2>er(ect  willingness  to  give  Dora  a  home,  and  a  mother's 


THE    NEW    PIANO.  Ill 

»rare,  to  see  that  she  had  every  possible  advantage,  to  watch 
over  and  make  her  not  only  what  Uncle  Nat  would  wish  to 
find  her,  but  what  Howard  Hastings  himself  desired  that 
she  should  be.  Of  Mrs.  Elliott,  we  have  said  but  little, 
neither  is  it  necessary  that  we  should  dwell  upon  her  charac- 
acter  at  large.  She  was  a  noble,  true-hearted  woman,  find 
ing  her  greatest  happiness  in  doing  others  good.  Widowed 
in  the  second  year  of  her  married  life,  her  home  was  com 
paratively  lonely,  for  no  second  love  had  ever  moved  her 
heart.  In  Dora  Deane,  of  whom  Ella  had  written  so  en 
thusiastically,  she  felt  a  deep  interest,  and  when  her  brother 
came  to  her  with  the  story  of  her  wrongs,  she  gladly  con- 
pented  to  be  to  her  a  mother,  nay,  possibly  a  sister,  for,  with 
woman's  ready  tact,  she  read  what  Mr.  Hastings  did  not 
even  suspect,  and  she  bade  him  bring  her  at  once. 

A  short  call  upon  his  mother,  to  whom  he  talked  of  Dora 
Deaue  ;  a  hasty  visit  to  Ella's  grave,  on  which  the  winter 
snow  was  lying  ;  a  civil  bow  across  the  street  to  Mrs.  Grey, 
who  had  never  quite  forgiven  him  for  having  killed  her  daugh 
ter  ;  and  he  started  back  to  Dunwood,  bearing  with  him 
a  happier,  healthier,  frame  of  mind,  than  he  had  experi 
enced  for  many  a  day.  There  was  something  now  worth 
living  for — the  watching  Dora  Deane  grow  up  into  a  wo 
man,  whose  husband  would  delight  to  honor  her,  and  whoso 
children  would  rise  up  and  call  her  blessed.  This  picture, 
however,  was  not  altogether  pleasing,  though  why  the 
thoughts  of  Dora's  future  husband  should  affect  him  un 
pleasantly,  he  could  not  tell.  Still  it  did,  and  mentally 
hoping  she  would  never  marry,  he  reached  Dunwood  at  the 
close  of  the  third  day  after  his  departure  from  it. 

Here  for  a  moment  we  leave  him,  while,  in  another  chap< 
ter,  we  look  in  upon  Eugenia,  whom  we  left  waiting  for  him 
at  the  hotel. 


HI  DORA    DEANE. 


CHAPTER    XVI. 

FAILURE     AND     SUCCESS. 

IN  a  state  of  great  anxiety,  which  increased  each  moment, 
Eugenia  looked  for  the  twentieth  time  into  the  long  hull,  and 
seeing  no  one,  went  back  again  to  the  glass,  wondering  if  her 
new  hat,  which,  without  her  mother's  knowledge,  had  that 
afternoon  been  purchased,  and  now  adorned  her  head,  were 
as  becoming  as  the  milliner  had  said,  and  if  fifteen  dollars 
were  not  a  great  price  for  one  in  her  circumstances  to  pay 
for  a  bonnet.  Then  she  thought  if  Mr.  Hastings  proposed 
soon,  as  she  believed  he  would,  she  should  never  again  feel 
troubled  about  the  trivial  matter  of  money,  of  which  she 
would  have  an  abundance.  But  where  was  he  and  why  did 
he  not  come  ?  she  asked  herself  repeatedly,  caring  less,  how 
ever,  for  the  delay,  when  she  considered  that  if  they  were 
late,  more  people  would  see  her  in  company  with  the  elegant 
Mr.  Hastings,  who  was  well  known  in  the  city. 

"  Eight  o'clock  as  I  live,"  she  exclaimed  at  last,  consult 
ing  her  watch,  "  and  the  concert  was  to  commence  at  half- 
past  seven.  What  can  it  mean  ?"  and  with  another  glance 
at  *»er  bonnet,  she  walked  the  length  of  the  hall,  and  leaning 
far  over  the  balustrade  looked  anxiously  down  into  the 
office  below,  to  see  if  by  any  chance  he  were  there. 

Hut  he  was  not,  and  returning  to  her  room,  she  waited 
another  half  hour,  when,  grow.n  more  fidgety  and  anxious 


FAILURE    AND    SUCCESS.  118 

she  descended  to  the  office,  inquiring  if  Mr.  Hastings  had 
been  there  that  evening.  Some  one  thought  they  had  seen 
him  in  the  ladies'  parlor  that  afternoon,  but  further  informa 
tion  than  that,  she  could  not  obtain,  and  the  discomfited 
joung  lady  went  back  to  her  room  in  no  very  enviable  framtj 
of  mind,  particularly  as  she  heard  the  falling  of  the  rain, 
and  thought  how  dark  it  was  without. 

"  What  can  have  kept  him  ?"  she  said,  half  crying  with 
vexation.  "  And  how  I  wish  I  had  gone  home  with 
mother  I" 

Wishing,  however,  was  of  no  avail,  and  when  that  night 
at  half-past  ten,  the  hotel  omnibus  as  usual  went  to  the 
depot,  it  carried  a  very  cross  young  lady,  who,  little  heed 
ing  what  she  did,  and  caring  less,  sat  down  beneath  a 
crevice  in  the  roof,  through  which  the  rain  crept  in,  lodging 
upon  the  satin  bows  and  drooping  plumes  of  her  fifteen- 
dollar  hat,  which,  in  her  disappointment,  she  had  forgotten 
to  exchange  for  the  older  one,  safely  stowed  away  in  the 
band-box  she  held  upon  her  lap.  Arrived  at  Dunwood 
station,  she  found,  as  she  had  expected,  no  omnibus  in 
waiting,  nor  any  one  whose  services  she  could  claim  as  an 
escort,  so,  borrowing  an  umbrella,  and  holding  up  her  dress 
as  best  she  could,  she  started,  band-box  in  hand,  for  home, 
stepping  once  into  a  pool  of  water,  and  falling  once  upon 
the  dirty  sidewalk,  from  which  the  mud  and  snow  were 
wiped  by  her  rich  velvet  cloak,  to  say  nothing  of  the  fright 
ful  pinch  made  in  her  other  bonnet  by  her  having  crushed 
Ihe  band-box  in  her  fall. 

In  a  most  forlorn  condition,  she  at  last  reached  home, 
where  to  her  dismay  she  found  the  door  was  locked  and  the 
fire  gone  out,  her  mother  not  having  expected  her  to  return 
on  such  a  night  as  this.  To  rouse  up  Dora,  and  scold  her 
unmercifully,  though  for  what  she  scarcely  knew,  was  undo; 


120  DORA    DEANE. 

(lie  circumstances  quite  natural,  and  while  Mr.  Hastings  at 
Rose  Hill  was  devising  the  best  means  of  removing  Dora 
from  her  power,  she  at  Locust  Grove,  was  venting  the 
entire  weight  of  her  pent-up  wrath  upon  the  head  of  the 
dovoted  girl,  who  bore  it  uncomplainingly.  Removing  at  last 
her  bo.'inet^  she  discovered  the  marks  of  the  omnibus  leak, 
and  then  her  ire  was  turned  towards  him  as  having  been 
the  cause  of  all  her  disasters. 

"I'll  never  speak  to  him  again,  never,"  she  exclaimed,  aa 
she  crept  shivering  to  bed. 

But  a  few  hours,  quiet  slumber  dissipated  in  a  measure 
her  wrath,  and  during  the  next  day  she  many  times  looked 
out  to  see  him  coming,  as  she  surely  thought  he  would, 
laden  with  apologies  for  his  seeming  neglect.  But  nothing 
appeared  except  the  huge  box  containing  the  piano,  and  in 
superintending  the  opening  of  that  her  mind  was  for  a  time 
diverted.  Greatly  Alice  and  Dora  marvelled  whence  came 
the  money  with  which  the  purchase  had  been  made,  and 
both. with  one  consent  settled  upon  Mr.  Hastings  as  having 
been  the  donor.  To  this  suggestion  Eugenia  made  no  reply, 
and  feeling  sure  that  it  was  so,  Dora  turned  away  and  walking 
to  the  window  sighed  as  she  wondered  what  Ella  would  say 
if  she  could  know  who  was  to  take  her  place  in  the  heart 
of  Howard  Hastings. 

The  instrument  was  finely  toned,  and  Eugenia  spent  the 
remainder  of  the  day  in  practising  a  very  difficult  piece, 
which  she  knew  Mr.  Hastings  admired,  and  with  which  she 
Intended  to  surprise  and  charm  him.  But  he  did  not  come, 
hither  that  day  or  the  next,  and  on  the  morning  of  the 
next,  which  was  Saturday,  feigning  some  trivial  errand  to 
Mrs.  Leah,  she  went  herself  to  Rose  Hill,  casting  anxious 
glances  towards  the  windows  of  his  room  to  see  if  he  were 
in  sight.  Dame  Leah  was  a  shrewd  old  woman,  and  readily 


FAILURE    AND    SUCCESS.  121 

guessing  that  Eugenia's  visit  was  prompted  from  a  desire  to 
see  her  master,  rather  than  herself,  she  determined  to  tan 
talize  her  by  saying  nothing  of  him  unless  she  were  ques 
tioned.  Continually  hoping  he  would  appear,  Eugenia 
lingered  until  there  was  no  longer  a  shadow  of  excuse  for  tarry 
ing,  and  then  she  arose  to  go,  saying  as  she  reached  the  door, 
"  Oh,now  I  think  of  it,  Mr.  Hastings  has  a  book  in  his  library 
which  I  very  much  wish  to  borrow.  Is  he  at  home  ?" 

"  No,"  answered  Mrs.  Leah,  "  he  went  to  New  York, 
Thursday  morning,  on  the  early  train." 

"  To  New  York  !"  repeated  Eugenia,  "  for  what  ?  and 
when  will  he  be  home  ?" 

"  He  said  he  had  important  business,"  returned  Mrs.  Leah, 
adding  that  "  maybe  he'd  be  home  that  night." 

Eugenia  had  heard  all  she  wished  to  know,  and  forgetting 
entirely  the  look,  bade  Mrs.  Leah  good  morning,  and  walked 
away,  feeling  in  a  measure  relieved,  for  the  busimss  which 
took  him  so  suddenly  to  New  York,  had  undoubtedly  some 
connection  with  his  failing  to  call  at  the  hotel  for  her  ! 
He  had  never  called  upon  Sunday  evening,  but  thinking  that 
after  so  long  an  absence  he  might  do  so  now,  she  sat  in 
state  from  six  o'clock  till  nine,  starting  nervously  at  every 
sound,  and  once  when  sure,  she  heard  him,  running  from  the 
room,  BO  he  would  not  find  her  there,  and  think  she  had  been 
waiting  for  him.  But  he  did  not  come,  and  the  next  day, 
feeling  exceedingly  anxious  to  know  if  he  had  returned,  and 
remembering  the  book,  which  she  had  failed  to  get,  and  must 
have,  she  towards  night  sent  Dora  to  Rose  Hill,  bidding 
her  if  she  saw  Mr.  Hastings  tell  him  that  her  piauo  had 
come  and  she  wished  him  to  hear  it. 

In  the  long  kitchen  by  a  glowing  stove,  Dame  Leah  sat, 
busy  with  her  knitting,  which  she  quickly  suspended  when 
ehe  saw  Dora,  who  was  with  her  a  favorite. 

6 


»M  DORA    DEAN!. 

14  So  Eugenia  sent  you  for  that  book  ?"  she  said,  when 
told  of  Dora's  errand.  "  I'll  see  if  he  will  lend  it." 

Mr.  Hastings  was  alone  in  his  library.  All  that  day  he 
had  been  making  up  his  mind  to  call  at  Locust  Grove,  where 
he  knew  Eugenia  was  impatiently  expecting  him,  for  Mm 
Leah  had  told  him  of  her  call,  winking  slily  as  she  spoke  of 
the  forgotten  book ! 

"  Yes,  I  will  go  and  have  it  over,"  he  thought,  just  as 
Mrs.  Leah  entered,  telling  him  that  "  Miss  Deane  wanted 
that  book." 

Thinking  that  Eugenia  was  in  the  house,  he  answered 
hastily.  "  Take  it  to  her,  and  pray  don't  let  her  in  here." 

"  It's  Dora,  not  Eugenia,"  said  Mrs.  Leah,  and  instantly 
the  whole  expression  of  his  countenance  changed 

"  Dora  /"  he  exclaimed.  "  It's  a  long  time  since  I  saw 
her  in  this  room.  Tell  her  to  come  up." 

Very  gladly  Dora  obeyed  the  summons,  and  in  a  moment 
she  stood  in  the  presence  of  Mr.  Hastings. 

"  I  am  glad  to  see  you,"  he  said,  motioning  her  to  the  lit 
tle  stool,  on  which  she  had  often  sat  when  reciting  to  him 
her  lessons,  and  when  she  now  sat  down,  it  was  so  near  to 
him  that,  had  he  chosen,  his  hand  could  have  rested  on  her 
beautiful  hair,  for  she  held  her  hood  upon  her  lap. 

Two  months  before  and  he  would  not  have  hesitated  to 
smooth  these  shining  tresses,  but  the  question  of  his  sister, 
"Do  you  love  her?"  had  produced  upon  him  a  curious  effect, 
making  him  half  afraid  of  the  child-woman  who  sat  before 
him,  and  who,  after  waiting  a  time  for  him  to  speak,  looked 
up  into  his  face,  and  said,  "  Do  you  want  me  for  anything 
in  particular,  Mr.  Hastings  ?" 

"  Want  you,  Dora  ?  Want  you  ?"  he  said,  abstract' 
edly,  as  if  that  question,  too,  had  puzzled  him  ;  then  re 
membering  himself,  and  why  he  had  sent  for  her,  he  aus- 


FAILURE    AND    SUCCESS.  l«l 

wered,  "  I  want  to  talk  with  you,  Dora  —  to  tell  you  s  jme- 
thing.  Do  you  remember  my  sister  Mrs.  Elliott  ?" 

The  eager,  upward  glance  of  Dora's  eyes,  was  a  sufficient 
answer,  and  he  continued.  "  I  saw  her  last  week  and 
talked  with  her  of  you.  She  wishes  you  to  come  and  live 
with  her.  Will  you  go  ?" 

Dora  could  never  tell  why  she  cried,  but  the  thought  of 
living  with  Mrs.  Elliott,  whom  she  regarded  as  an  almost 
superior  being,  overcame  her,  and  she  burst  into  tears, 
while  Mr.  Hastings  looked  at  her,  quite  uncertain  as  to  what, 
under  the  circumstances,  it  was  proper  for  him  to  do.  If 
his  sister  had  never  bothered  him  with  that  strange  ques 
tion,  he  would  have  known  exactly  how  to  act  ;  but 
now  in  a  state  of  perplexity,  he  sat  motionless,  until,  think 
ing  he  must  do  something,  he  said  gently,  "  Dora,  my  child." 
The  last  word  removed  his  embarrassment  entirely.  She 
was  a  child,  and  as  such  he  would  treat  her.  So  he  said 
again,  "  Dora,  my  child,  why  do  you  cry  ?"  and  Dora  ans 
wered  impulsively,  "  It  makes  me  so  glad  to  think  of  living 
with  Mrs.  Elliott,  for  you  do  not  know  how  unhappy  I  have 
been  since  she  found  me  four  years  ago. 

"  I  know  more  than  you  suppose.  But  it  is  over  now," 
he  said  ;  and  stretching  out  his  arm,  he  drew  her  nearer  to 
him,  and  resting  her  head  upon  his  knee,  he-  soothed  her  ag 
if  she  were  indeed  the  child  he  tried  to  believe  she  was,  and 
he  her  grey-haired  sire,  instead  of  a  young  man  of  twenty- 


And  Dora  grew  very  calm  sitting  there  with  Mr.  Hastir.gs?s 
baud  upon  her  head,  and  when  he  told  her  it  was  all  ar 
ranged,  and  she  should  surely  go,  she  sprang  to  her  feet, 
and  while  her  cheeks  glowed  with  excitement,  exclaimed,  "  It 
is  too  good  to  come  true.  Something  will  happen,  A.unt 
Sarah  will  not  let  ine  y;o  " 


124  DORA    DEANE. 

"  Yes,  she  will,"  said  Mr.  Hastings  decidedly.  "  I  am 
going  tuorc  to-night  to  talk  with  her." 

Then,  as  it  was  already  growing  dark,  he  arose  tD  accom 
pany  Dora  home,  both  of  them  forgetting  the  book,  which 
Eugenia  seemed  destined  never  to  receive.  But  she  did  not 
think  to  ask  for  it  in  her  joy  at  meeting  Mr.  Hastings,  who 
succeeded  in  appearing  natural  far  better  than  he  had  ex 
pected,  telling  her,  not  that  he  was  sorry  for  having  failed 
to  keep  his  appointment,  but  that  it  was  not  consistent  for 
him  to  do  so,  and  adding  that  he  hoped  she  was  not  very 
much  disappointed. 

"  Oh,  110,"  she  said,  "  I  know  of  course  that  business  de 
tained  you  ;" — then,  as  she  saw  him  looking  at  her  piano, 
she  advanced  towards  it,  and  seating  herself  upon  the  stool, 
asked,  "  if  he  would  like  to  hear  her  play  ?" 

He  could  not  conscientiously  answer  "yes,"  for  he  felt 
that  the  sound  would  sicken  him  ;  but  he  stood  at  her  side 
and  turned  the  leaves  of  her  music  as  usual,  while  she  dashed 
through  the  piece  she  had  practised  with  so  much  care. 

"  How  do  you  like  it  ?"  she  said,  when  she  had  iinished  ; 
and  he  answered,  "  I  always  admired  your  playing,  you 
know,  but  the  tone  of  the  instrument  does  not  quite  suit  me. 
It  seems  rather  muffled,  as  if  the  wires  were  made  of  hair .'" 
and  his  large  black  eyes  were  bent  searchiugly  upon  her.  ' 

Coloring  crimson,  she  thought,  "  Can  he  have  learned 
my  secret  ?"  then,  as  she  remembered  how  impossible  it  was 
for  him  to  know  aught  of  the  money,  she  answered,  "  Quite 
an  original  idea,"  at  the  same  time  seating  herself  upon  tho 
sofa.  S'tting  down  beside  her  as  he  had  been  in  the  habit 
ol  doing,  he  commenced  at  once  upon  the  object  of  his  visit, 
asking  if  her  mother  were  at  home,  and  saying  he  wished  to 
gee  her  on  a  matter  of  some  importance  ;  then,  knowing  who 
was  really  the  ruling  power  there,  be  added,  as  Eugenia 


FAILURE    AND    SUCCESS.  121 

arose  to  leave  the  room  in  quest  of  her  mother,  "  perhaps  I 
bad  better  speak  of  my  business  first  to  you  !" 

Feeling  sure  now  of  a  proposal,  the  young  lady  resumed 
her  seat,  involuntarily  pulling  at  her  fourth  finger,  and  meu« 
tally  hoping  the  engagement  ring  would  be  a-  diamond  one  I 
What  then  was  her  surprise  when  she  found  that  not  her* 
self,  but  Dora  was  the  subject  of  his  remarks  I  After  tell 
ing  her  of  his  visit  to  his  sister,  and  of  her  wishes  with  re 
gard  to  Dora,  he  said,  "  since  the  death  of  my  wife  and 
baby,  I  have  felt  a  deep  interest  in  your  family,  for  the 
kindness  shown  to  me  in  my  affliction.  I  promised  Ella  that 
I  would  befriend  Dora,  and  by  placing  her  with  Louise,  I 
shall  not  only  fulfill  my  word,  but  shall  also  be  relieved  of 
all  care  concerning  her.  Do  you  think  I  can  persuade  your 
mother  to  let  her  go  ?" 

Eugenia  did  not  know.  She  would  speak  to  her  about 
it  after  he  was  gone,  and  tell  him  on  the  morrow. 

"  I  shall  rely  upon  you  to  plead  my  cause,"  he  continued  ; 
"  Louise's  heart  is  quite  set  upon  it,  and  I  do  not  wish  to 
disappoint  her." 

"  I  will  do  my  best,"  answered  Eugenia,  never  suspecting 
that  Mr.  Hastings  was  quite  as  anxious  as  his  sister,  who, 
she  presumed,  intended  making  a  half  companion,  half  wait 
ing-maid  of  her  cousin. 

"  But  it  will  be  a  good  place  for  her,  and  somewhat  of  a 
relief  to  us,"  she  thought,  after  Mr.  Hastings  had  gone. 
"  She  is  getting  to  be  a  young  lady  now,  and  growing  each 
year  more  and  more  expensive.  I  presume  Mrs.  Elliott  will 
send  her  to  school  for  a  time  at  least,  and  in  case  oar 
families  should  be  connected,  it  is  well  for  her  to  do  so  I 
wrote  to  Uncle  Nat  that  we  wished  to  send  her  away  to 
school,  and  this  is  the  very  thing.  Mother  won't  of  course 
insist  upon  her  having  all  that  money,  for  she  will  be 


J2«  DORA    DEANE. 

well  enough  off  without  it,  and  if  Mr.  Hastings  ever  does  pro 
pose,  I  can  have  a  handsome  outfit  !  Fortune  does  favof 
me  certainly." 

Thus  Eugenia  mused,  and  thus  did  she  talk  to  her  mother, 
and  she  wag  the  more  easily  persuaded  when  she  saw  how 
eager  Dora  was  to  go." 

"  I  shall  be  sorry  to  leave  you,  Aunt  Sarah,"  said  Dora, 
coming  to  her  side,  and  resting  her  hand  upon  her  shoulder, 
"  but  I  shall  be  so  happy  with  Mrs.  Elliott,  that  I  am  sure 
you'll  let  rue  go." 

Mrs.  Deaue  was  naturally  a  cold,  selfish  woman,  but  the 
quiet,  unassuming  Dora  had  found  a  place  in  her  heart,  and 
she  would  be  very  lonely  without  her  ;  still  it  was  better 
for  her,  and  better  for  them  all  that  she  should  go  ;  so  she 
at  last  gave  her  consent,  and  when  the  next  day  Mr.  Hast 
ings  called  he  was  told  that  Dora  could  go  as  soon  as  he 
thought  best. 

"  Let  it  be  immediately,  then,"  he  said.  "  I  will  write  to 
Louise  to  night,  and  tell  her  we  shall  come  next  week." 

"  I  wish  1  could  go  to  New  York  with  her,"  said  Eugenia. 
"  It's  so  long  since  I  was  there." 

"  You  had  better  wait  till  some  other  time,  for  I  could 
not  now  show  you  over  the  city,"  answered  Mr.  Hastings, 
who  had  no  idea  of  being  burdened  with  Eugenia. 

"  He  expects  me  to  go  with  him  sometime,  or  he  would 
never  have  said  that,"  thought  Eugenia,  and  this  belief 
kept  her  good  natured  during  all  the  bustle  and  hurry  of 
preparing  Dora  for  her  journey. 

The  morning  came  at  last  on  which  Dora  was  to  leave, 
•ud  with  feelings  of  regret  Mrs.  Deane  and  Alice  bade  her 
good  bye,  while  Eugenia  accompanied  her  to  the  depot, 
where  she  knew  she  should  see  Mr.  Hastings. 

"  I've  half  a  mind  to  go  with  you  as  far  as  Rochester,"  sh« 


FAILUBE    AND    SUCCESS,  1*7 

said  to  Dora,  in  his  presence,  as  the  cars  came  np,  but  he 
made  no  reply,  and  the  project  was  abandoned. 

Kissing  her  cousin  good-bye,  she  stood  upon  the  platform 
until  the  train  had  moved  away,  and  then  walked  slow  I/ 
back  to  the  house,  which  even  to  her  seemed  lonesome. 


DOHA 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

THS      QUESTION      ANSWERED. 

IT  was  late  in  the  evening  when  our  travellers  reached  the 
city,  which  loomed  up  before  Dora  like  an  old  familiar  friend. 
Thej1  found  Mrs.  Elliott  waiting  to  receive  them,  together 
with  Mr.  Hastings's  mother,  who,  having  heard  so  much  of 
Dora  Deane,  had  come  over  to  see  her.  Very  affectionately 
did  Mrs.  Elliott  greet  the  weary  girl,  and  after  divesting  her 
of  her  wrappings,  she  led  her  to  her  mother,  whose  keen  eyes 
scrutini/ed  her  closely,  but  found  no  fault  in  the  fair  childish 
face  which  looked  so  timidly  up  to  her.  Half  bewildered, 
Dora  gazed  about  her,  and  then,  with  her  eyes  swimming  in 
tears,  whispered  softly  to  Mr.  Hastings,  "I  am  so  afraid  it 
will  prove  to  be  a  dream." 

"  I  will  see  that  it  does  not,"  said  Mrs.  Elliott,  who  had 
overheard  her,  and  who,  as  time  passed  on,  became  morp 
and  more  interested  in  the  orphan  girl. 

For  several  days  Mr.  Hastings  lingered,  showing  her  all 
over  the  city,  and  going  once  with  her  to  visit  the 
room  where  he  had  found  her.  But  the  elements  had  pre 
ceded  them — fire  and  water — and  net  a  trace  of  the  oh? 
building  remained.  At  the  expiration  of  a  week,  Mr.  Hast 
ings  started  for  home,  half  wishing  he  could  take  Dora  with 
him,  and  wondering  if  his  sister  were  iu  earnest,  when  sh« 
asked  him  if  lie.  loved  her  1 


THE    QUESTION    ANSWERED.  12» 

A  new  world  now  seemed  opened  to  Dora,  who  never 
thought  it  possible  for  her  to  be  so  happy.  The  ablest  in 
structors  were  hired  to  teach  her,  and  the  utmost  care  be 
stowed  upon  her  education,  while  nothing  could  exceed  the 
kindness  both  of  Mrs.  Elliott  and  Mrs.  Hastings,  the  latter 
of  whom  treated  her  as  she  would  have  done  a  young  and 
favorite  daughter.  One  evening  when  Mrs.  Elliott  waa 
dressing  for  a  party,  Dora  asked  permission  to  arrange  her 
soft  glossy  hair,  which  she  greatly  admired. 

"  It's  not  all  my  own,"  said  Mrs.  Elliott,  taking  off  a 
heavy  braid  and  laying  it  upon  the  table.  "  I  bought  it  iu 
Rochester,  nearly  two  years  ago,  on  the  day  of  Ella's  party. 
I  have  often  wished  I  knew  whose  it  was,"  she  continued, 
"  for  to  me  there  is  something  disagreeable  in  wearing  other 
people's  hair,  but  the  man  of  whom  I  purchased  it,  assured 
me  that  it  was  cut  from  the  head  of  a  young,  healthy  girl." 

For  a  moment  Dora  stood  thinking — then  catching  up  the 
beautiful  braid  and  comparing  it  with  her  own,  she  exclaimed, 
"  It  was  mine  !  It  was  mine  I  Eugenia  cut  it  olf,  and  sold 
it  the  day  before  the  party.  Oh,  I  am  so  glad,"  she  added, 
"  though  I  was  sorry  then,  for  I  did  not  know  it  would  come 
to  you,  the  dearest  friend  I  ever  had,"  and  she  smoothed 
caressingly  the  shining  hair,  now  a  shade  lighter  than  her 
own. 

Mrs.  Elliott  had  heard  from  her  brother  the  story  of 
Dora's  shorn  locks,  and  the  braid  of  hair  was  far  more  val 
uable  to  her,  now  that  she  knew  upon  whose  head  it  had 
grown.  In  her  next  letter  to  her  brother,  she  spoke  of  the 
discovery,  and  he  could  not  forbear  mentioning  the  circum- 
stances  to  Eugenia,  who,  not  suspecting  how  much  he  knew 
of  the  matter,  answered  indifferently,  "  Isn't  it  funny  how 
things  do  come  round  ?  Dora  had  so  much  of  the  headache 
that  we  thought  it  best  tc  cut  off  her  hair,  which  sh« 

6* 


130  DORA    DEANE. 

wished  me  to  sell  for  her  in  Rochester.  I  thiuk  she  wai 
always  a  little  penurious  1" 

Wholly  disgusted  with  this  fresh  proof  of  her  duplicity. 
Mr.  Hastings  could  scarcely  refrain  from  upbraiding  hor  for 
her  perfidy,  but  thinking  the  time  had  not  yet  come,  he  re 
strained  his  wrath,  and  when  next  he  spoke,  it  was  to  tell 
her  of  a  foreign  tour  which  he  intended  making. 

"  I  have  bug  wished  to  visit  the  old  world,"  said  he,  "  and 
as  there  is  nothing  in  particular  to  prevent  my  doing  so,  I 
shall  probably  start  the  first  of  June.  I  should  go  sooner, 
but  I  prefer  being  on  the  ocean  in  the  summer  season." 

For  a  moment  Eugenia  grew  faint,  fancying  she  saw  an 
end  of  all  her  hopes,  but  soon  rallying,  she  expatiated  large 
ly  upon  the  pleasure  and  advantages  to  be_  derived  from  a 
tour  through  Europe,  saying,  "  it  was  a  happiness  she  had 
herself  greatly  desired,  but  should  probably  never  realize." 

"  Not  if  you  depend  upon  me  for  an  escort,"  thought  Mr. 
Hastings,  who,  soon  after,  took  his  leave. 

Much  Eugenia  wondered  whether  he  would  ask  the  im 
portant  question,  and  take  her  with  him,  and  concluding  at 
last  that  he  would,  she  secretly  made  some  preparations  for 
the  expected  journey  !  But  alas  for  her  hopes  !  The  spring 
went  by,  the  summer  came,  and  she  was  still  Eugenia  Deane, 
when  one  evening  towards  the  middle  of  June,  Mr.  Hastings 
came  over  to  say  good-bye,  as  he  was  intending  to  start 
uext  morning  for  New  York,  or  rather,  for  his  sister's  coun 
try  seat  on  the  Hudson,  where  she  was  now  spending  the 
summer.  This  was  a  death-blow  to  Eugenia,  who  could 
scarcely  appear  natural.  Tears  came  to  her  eyes,  and  once 
when  she  attempted  to  tell  him  how  lonely  Rose  Hill  would 
be  without  him,  she  failed  entirely  for  want  of  voice. 

"  How  hoarse  you  are.  Have  you  a  cold,"  said  Mr.  Hast 
Ings,  and  that  was  all  the  notice  he  took  of  her  emotion 


THE    QUESTION    ANSWERED.  181 

Fearing  lest  he  should  suspect  her  real  feelings,  she  tried 
to  compose  herself,  and  after  a  time  said,  jokingly.  "  I 
shouldn't  wonder  if  you  were  going  to  take  you  a  wife  from 
gome  of  the  city  belles." 

"  Oh,  no,"  he  answered  lightly.  "  Time  enough  to  think 
of  that  when  I  return." 

This  gave  her  hope,  and  she  bore  the  parting  better  than 
she  could  otherwise  have  done. 

"  You  will  not  forget  me  entirely,  I  trust,"  she  said,  as  she 
gave  him  her  hand. 

"  Oh,  no,"  he  answered.  "  That  would  be  impossible.  I 
have  many  reasons  which  you  do  not  perhaps  suspect,  for 
remembering  you  I  By  the  way,"  he  continued,  "  have  you 
any  message  for  Dora  1  I  shall  probably  see  her  as  she  is 
with  my  sister." 

"  Give  her  my  love,"  answered  Eugenia,  "  and  tell  her 
to  write  more  definitely  of  her  situation.  She  never  par 
ticularizes,  but  merely  says  she  is  very  happy.  I  do  hope 
Mrs.  Elliott  will  make  something  of  her  1" 

The  next  moment  Mr.  Hastings's  good  bye  was  ringing  in 
her  ears,  and  he  was  gone.  Seating  herself  upon  the  stairs, 
and  covering  her  face  with  her  hands,  Eugenia  wept  bit 
terly,  and  this  was  their  parting. 

One  week  later  and  at  the  same  hour  in  the  evening,  Mr. 
Hastings  sat  in  his  sister's  pleasant  parlor,  looking  out  upon 
the  blue  waters  of  the  Hudson,  and  wondering  why,  as  the 
time  for  his  departure  drew  near,  his  heart  should  cling  so 
fondly  to  the  friends  he  was  to  leave  behind.  "  I  shall  see 
them  again  if  I  live,"  he  said,  "and  why  this  dread  of 
bidding  them  farewell  ?" 

At  this  moment  his  sister  entered  the  room,  bringing  to 
him  a  letter  from  a  rich  old  Texan  bachelor,  who  was  spend 
ing  the  summer  with  some  friends  in  the  vicinity  of  her 


i32  DOHA    DEANE. 

home.  It  was  directed  to  the  "  Guardians  of  Dora  Deane,* 
and  asked  permission  to  address  her  1  lie  had  seen  he* 
occasionally  at  Mrs.  Elliott's  house,  had  met  her  frequently 
in  his  morning  rambles,  and  the  heart  which  for  forty-five 
years  had  withstood  the  charms  of  northern  beauties  and 
southern  belles,  was  won  by  the  modest  little  country 
girl,  and  he  would  make  her  his  wife,  would  bear  her  to  his 
luxurious  home,  where  her  slightest  wish  should  be  his  law. 
"With  a  curious  smile  upon  her  lip,  Mrs.  Elliott  read  this 
letter  through,  and  then  without  a  word  to  Dora,  carried  it 
to  her  brother,  watching  him  while  he  read  it,  and  smiling 
still  more  when  she  saw  the  flush  upon  his  brow,  and  the 
unnatural  light  in  his  eye. 

"  Have  you  talked  with  Dora  ?"  he  said,  when  he  had 
finished  reading. 

"  No,  I  have  not,"  answered  his  sister.  "  I  thought  I 
would  leave  that  to  you,  for  in  case  she  should  ask  my 
advice,  my  fear  of  losing  her  might  influence  me  too  much." 

"Louise,"  he  exclaimed,  leaning  forward  so  that  his  hot 
breath  touched  her  cheek,  "you  surely  do  not  believe  that 
Dora  Deane  cares  aught  for  that  old  man.  She  is  nothing 
but  a  child." 

"  She  is  seventeen  next  November,"  said  Mrs.  Elliott, 
"  almost  as  old  as  Ella  was  when  first  you  were  engaged,  and 
how  can  we  tell  how  often  she  has  thought  of  matrimony  ?  Mr. 
Trevors  is  a  man  of  unexceptionable  character,  and  though 
old  enough  to  be  her  father,  he  is  immensely  wealthy,  and 
ehis,  you  know,  makes  a  vast  difference  with  some  girls." 

"  But  not  with  her — not  with  Dora  Deane,  I'm  sure,"  he 
6aid,  "  Where  is  she  ?  Send  her  to  me,  and  I  will 
see." 

i  Dora's  governess,  who  had  accompanied  them  to  the 
country,  was  sometimes  very  exacting,  and  this  day  she  had 


THE    QUESTION    ANSWERED.  131 

been  unusually  cross,  on  account  of  her  pupil's  having  failed 
in  one  or  two  lessons. 

"  I'll  report  you  to  Mr.  Hastings,  and  see  what  he  can 
do,';  she  had  said,  as  she  hurled  the  French  Grammar  back 
npoc  the  table. 

This  threat  Dora  had  forgotten,  until  told  that  Mr.  lias- 
tings  had  scut  for  her  ;  then,  fancying  he  wished  to  repri 
mand  her,  she  entered  the  parlor  reluctantly,  and  rather 
timidly  took  a  seat  upon  an  ottoman  near  the  window, 
where  he  was  sitting. 

During  Dora's  residence  with  Mrs.  Elliott,  she  had 
improved  much,  both  in  manner  and  personal  appearance, 
and  others  than  the  Texan  planter  called  her  beautiful. 
The  brownish  hue,  which  her  skin  had  acquired  from  fre. 
quent  exposure,  was  giving  way  to  a  clearer  and  more 
brilliant  complexion,  while  the  peculiarly  sweet  expression 
of  her  deep  blue  eyes  would  have  made  a  plain  face  hand 
some.  But  Dora's  chief  point  of  beauty  lay  in  her  hair — • 
her  beautiful  hair  of  reddish  brown.  It  had  grown  rapidly, 
fully  verifying  Alice's  prediction,  and  in  heavy  shining  braids 
was  worn  around  her  classically  shaped  head.  And  Dora 
sat  there  very  still — demurely  waiting  for  Mr.  Hastings  to 
speak,  wondering  if  he  would  be  severe,  and  at  last  laughing 
aloud  when,  in  place  of  the  expected  rebuke,  he  asked  if 
she  knew  Mr.  Trevors. 

"  Excuse  me,"  she  said,  as  she  saw  his  look  of  surprrse. 
"  Miss  Johnson  threatened  to  report  me  for  indolence,  and 
I  thought  you  were  going  to  scold  me.  Yes,  I  know  Mr. 
Trevors.  I  rode  horseback  with  him  last  week." 

A  pang  shot  through  Mr.  Hastings's  heart,  but  he  con 
tinued,  holding  up  the  letter.  "  He  has  sued  for  your  hand, 
He  asks  you  to  be  his  wife.  Will  you  answer  yes  ?" 

And  trembling  with  excitement,  he  awaited    her  reply, 


134  •         DORA    DEANE. 

while  the  revelation  of  a  new  light  was   faintly  dawning 
Apon  him. 

"  Mr.  Trevors  wish  me  to  be  his  wife — that  old  man  !' 
she  exclaimed,  turning  slightly  pale.  "  It  cannot  be  ;  let 
me  read  the  letter."  And  taking  it  from  his  hand,  she  stood 
beneath  the  chandelier,  and  read  it  through,  while  Mr.  Has 
tings  scanned  her  face  to  see  if  he  could  detect  aught  to 
verify  his  fears. 

But  there  was  nothing,  and  breathing  more  freely,  ho 
said,  as  she  returned  to  him  the  letter,  "  Sit  down  here, 
Dora,  and  tell  me  what  I  shall  say  to  him.  But  first  con 
sider  well,  Mr.  Trevors  is  rich,  and  if  money  can  make  you 
happy,  you  will  be  so  as  his  wife." 

Dora  did  not  know  why  it  was,  but  she  could  not  endure 
to  hear  him  talk  in  such  a  calm  unconcerned  manner  of 
what  was  so  revolting.  It  grieved  her,  and  laying  her 
head  upon  the  broad  window  seat,  she  began  to  cry. 
Mr.  Hastings  did  not  this  time  say  "  Dora,  my  child,"  for 
Louise  had  told  him  she  was  not  a  child,  and  he  began  to 
think  so,  too.  Drawing  his  chair  nearer  to  her,  and  laying 
his  hand  upon  her  hair,  he  said  gently,  "  will  you  answer 
me  ?" 

"  Yes,"  she  replied,  somewhat  bitterly.  "  If  Mrs.  Elliott  is 
tired  of  me,  I  will  go  away,  but  not  with  Mr.  Trevors.  I 
would  rather  die  than  marry  a  man  I  did  not  love,  because 
of  his  gold." 

"  Noble  girl  1"  was  Mr.  Hastings's  involuntary  exclama- 
ticn,  but  Dora  did  not  hear  it,  and  looking  him  in  his  face, 
she  said,  "  do  you  wish  me  to  marry  him  ?" 

'  Never,  never,"  he  answered,  "  him,  nor  any  one  else  1" 
"  Then  tell  him  so,"  said  she,  unmindful  of  the  latter  part 
of  the  remark.     "Tell  him  I  respect  him,  but  I  cannot  be 
bis  wife." 


THE    QUESTION    ANSWEKED.  1X6 

And  rising  to  her  feet  she  left  the  room,  to  wash  a\vay  in 
another  fit  of  tears,  the  excitement  produced  by  her  first  oiler' 

Very  still  sat  Mr.  Hastings  wheu  she  was  gone,  thought 
after  thought  crowding  fast  upon  him,  and  half  bewildering 
him  by  their  intensity.  He  could  answer  Louise's  question 
now  1  It  had  coine  to  him  at  last,  sitting  there  with  Mr. 
Trevor's  letter  in  his  hand,  and  Dora  at  his  feet.  Dora 
who  was  so  dear  to  him,  and  his  first  impulse  was  to  hasten 
to  her  side,  and  sue  for  the  love  she  could  not  give  the  grey- 
haired  Texan. 

"  And  she  will  not  tell  me  nay,"  he  said.  "  It  will  como 
to  her  as  it  has  to  me — the  love  we  have  unconsciously 
borne  each  other." 

He  arose  to  leave  the  room,  but  meeting  his  sister  in  the 
door,  he  turned  back,  and  seating  himself  with  her  in  the 
deep  recess  of  the  window,  he  told  her  of  the  mighty  love 
which  had  been  so  long  maturing,  and  of  whose  existence 
he  did  not  dream  until  another  essayed  to  come  between  him 
and  the  object  of  his  affection. 

"  And,  Louise,"  he  said,  "  Dora  Deaue  must  be  mine. 
Are  you  willing — will  you  call  her  sister,  and  treat  her  as 
my  wife  ?" 

And  Mrs.  Elliott  answered,  "I  know,  my  brother,  that 
you  love  Dora  Deane.  I  knew  it  when  I  asked  you  that 
question,  and  if  to-night  I  tried  to  tease  you  by  making  you 
believe  it  possible  that  she  cared  for  Mr.  Trevors,  it  was  to 
show  you  the  nature  of  your  feelings  for  her.  And  I  am 
willing  tlxat  't  should  be  so — but  not  yet.  You  must  not 
Bpeak  to  her  of  love,  until  you  return.  Hear  me  out,"  she 
continued,  as  she  saw  in  him  a  gesture  of  impatience. 
"  Dora  is  no  longer  a  child — but  she  is  too  young  to  bo 
trammelled  with  an  engagement.  And  it  must  not  be.  You 
must  leavj  her  free  till  she  has  seen  more  of  *,hc  world,  and 
her  mind  is  more  mature. 


136  DOHA    DEANE. 

"Free  till  another  wins  her  from  me,"  interrupted  Mr. 
£Tastings,  somewhat  bitterly  ;  and  his  sister  answered,  "  1 
am  sure  that  will  never  be,  though  were  you  now  to  startle 
her  with  your  love  she  probably  would  refuse  you." 

"  Never,"  he  said  emphatically  ;  and  Mrs.  Elliott  replied 
"  I  think  she  would.  She  respects  and  admires  you,  but 
ar  you  have  looked  upon  her  as  a  child,  so  in  like  manner, 
has  she  regarded  you  as  a  father,  or,  at  least  the  hus 
band  of  Ella,  and  such  impressions  must  have  time  to  wear 
away.  You  would  not  take  her  with  you,  and  it  is  better 
to  leave  her  as  she  is.  I  will  watch  over  her  and  seek  to 
make  her  what  your  wife  ought  to  be,  and  when  you  return 
she  will  be  older,  will  be  capable  of  judging  for  herself,  and 
she  will  not  tell  you  no.  Do  you  not  think  my  reasoning 
good  ?» 

"  I  suppose  it  is,"  he  replied,  "  though  it  is  sadly  at  vari 
ance  with  my  wishes.  Were  I  sure  no  one  would  come  be 
tween  us,  I  could  more  easily  follow  your  advice,  and  were 
it  not  that  I  go  for  her,  I  would  give  up  my  journey  at  once, 
and  stay  where  I  could  watch  and  see  that  no  one  camo 
near." 

"  This  I  will  do,"  said  Mrs.  Elliott,  "and  I  fancy  I  can 
keep  her  safe  for  you." 

Awhile  longer  they  talked  together,  and  their  conversation 
was  at  last  interrupted  by  the  appeareuce  of  Dora  herself, 
who  came  to  say  good  night. 

"  Come  and  sit  by  me,  Dora,"  said  Mr.  Hastings,  unmind 
ful  of  his  sister's  warning  glance.  "  Let  me  tell  you  what  I 
wish  you  to  do  while  I  am  gone,"  and  moving  along  upon 
the  sofa,  he  left  a  place  for  her  at  his  side. 

Scarcely  was  she  seated  when  a  servant  appeared,  wish 
ing  to  speak  with  Mrs.  Elliott,  and  Mr.  Hastings  was  left 
alone  with  Dora,  with  whom  he  merely  talked  of  what  he. 
bopcd  to  find  her  when  he  returned.  Once,  indeed,  he 


THE    QUESTION    ANSWERED.  15? 

told  her  how  often  he  should  think  of  her,  when  he  was  fai 
away,  and  asked  as  a  keepsake  a  lock  of  her  soft  hair. 

Three  days  afterwards  he  went  to  New  York  accompa 
nied  by  Mrs.  Elliott  and  Dora.  He  was  to  sail  next  morn 
ing,  and  wishing  to  see  as  much  of  the  latter  as  possible,  he 
felt  somewhat  chagrined  when,  soon  after  their  arrival,  his 
Bister  insisted  upon  taking  her  out  for  a  time,  and  forbade 
hiui  to  follow.  For  this  brief  separation,  however,  he  was  am 
ply  repaid  when,  on  the  morrow,  his  sister,  who  went  with  him 
on  board  the  vessel,  placed  in  his  hand  at  parting  a  daguer 
reotype,  which  she  told  him  not  to  open  till  she  was  gone. 
He  obeyed,  and  while  Dora  in  his  sister's  home  was  weeping 
that  he  had  left  them,  he  in  his  state-room  was  gazing 
rapturously  on  a  fair  young  face,  which,  looking  out  from 
its  handsome  casing,  would  speak  to  him  many  a  word  of 
I'omfort  when  he  was  afar  en  the  lonely  sea. 


Ill  DORA    DEANE 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

MR.     HASTINGS    IN     INDIA. 

IT  was  night  again  in  Calcutta,  and  in  the  same  room 
where  we  first  found  him  was  Nathaniel  Deane — not  alone  this 
time,  for  standing  before  him  was  a  stranger — "  an  Amer 
ican,"  he  called  himself,  and  the  old  East  Indiaman,  when  he 
heard  that  word,  grasped  again  the  hand  of  his  unknown 
guest,  whose  face  he  curiously  scanned  to  see  if  before  he 
had  looked  upon  it.  But  he  had  not,  and  pointing  him  to  a 
chair,  he  too  sat  down  to  hear  his  errand.  Wishing  to 
know  something  of  the  character  of  the  individual  he  had 
come  so  far  to  see,  Mr.  Hastings,  for  he  it  was,  conversed 
awhile  upon  a  variety  of  subjects,  until,  feeling  sure  that 
'twas  a  noble,  upright  man,  with  whom  he  had  to  deal,  he 
said,  "  I  told  you,  sir,  that  I  came  from  New  York,  and  so  I 
did  ;  but  my  home  is  in  Duuwood." 

One  year  ago,  and  Uncle  Nat  would  have  started  with 
delight  at  the  mention  of  a  place  so  fraught  with  remem 
brances  of  Dora,  but  Eugenia's  last  cruel  letter  had  chilled 
his  love,  and  now,  when  he  thought  of  Dora,  it  was  as  one 
incapable  of  either  affection  or  gratitude.  So,  for  a  moment 
he  was  silent,  and  Mr.  Hastings,  thinking  he  had  not  been 
understood,  was  about  to  repeat  his  remark;  when  Uncle 
Nat  replied,  "  My  brother's  widow  lives  in  Dunwood — Mrs. 
Richurd  Deane — possibly  you  may  have  seen  her  1"  And 


MR.  HASTES  Gb  iN   INDIA.  13J 

with  a  slight  degree  of  awakeued  interest,  the  little  keen, 
olack  eyes  looked  out  from  under  their  thick  shaggy  eye 
brows  at  Mr.  Hastings,  who  answered,  "  I  know  the  family 
well.  Dora  is  not  now  at  homo,  but  is  living  with  my 
sister." 

Many  and  many  a  time  had  Uncle  Nat  repeated  to  him 
self  the  name  of  Dora,  but  never  before  had  he  heard  it 
from  other  lips,  and  the  sound  thrilled  him  strangely,  bring 
ing  back  in  a  moment  all  his  olden  love  for  one  whose 
mother  had  been  so  dear.  In  the  jet  black  eyes  there  waa 
a  dewy  softness  now,  and  in  the  tones  of  his  voice  a  deep 
tenderness,  as,  drawing  nearer  to  his  guest,  he  said  in  a  half 
whisper,  "  Tell  me  of  her — of  Dora — for  though  I  never 
saw  her,  I  knew  her  mother." 

"And  loved  her  too," rejoined  Mr.  Hastings,  on  purpose  to 
rouse  up  the  old  man,  who,  starting  to  his  feet  exclaimed, 
"  How  knew  you  that  ?  You,  whom  I  never  saw  until  to 
night  I  Who  told  you  that  I  loved  Fannie  Deane  ?  Yes  it 
is  true,  young  man — true,  though  love  does  not  express 
what  I  felt  for  her  ;  she  was  my  all — my  very  life,  and  when 
I  lost  her  the  world  was  a  dreary  blank.  But  go  on — tell 
me  of  the  child,  and  if  she  is  like  her  mother.  Though  how 
should  you  know  ?  You,  who  never  saw  my  Fannie  ?" 

"  I  have  seen  her,"  returned  Mr.  Hastings,  "  but  death  was 
there  before  me,  and  had  marred  the  beauty  of  a  face  which 
once  must  have  been  lovely.  Five  years  ago  last  January  I 
found  her  dead,  and  at  her  side  was  Dora,  sweetly  sleeping, 
with  her  arms  around  her  mother's  neck." 

"  You — you,"  gasped  the  old  man,  drawing  near  to  Mr. 
Hastings — "you  found  them  thus  1  I  could  kneel  at  your 
feet,  whoever  you  may  be,  and  bless  you  for  coming  here  to 
tell  me  this  ;  I  never  knew  before  how  Fannie  died.  They 
uever  wrote  me  that,  but  go  on  and  tell  me  all  you  know. 


140  DORA   DEANE. 

Did  Fannie  freeze  to  death  while  in  India  I  counted  mj 
gold  by  hundreds  of  thousands  ?" 

Briefly  Mr.  Hastings  told  what  he  knew  of  Mrs.  Deane'a 
Bad  death,  \\hile  the  broad  chest  of  Uncle  Nat  heaved  with 
broken  sobs,  and  the  big  tears  rolled  down  his  sunken 
cheeks. 

"  Heaven  forgive  me  for  tarrying  here,  while  she  was  suf 
fering  so  much  1"  he  cried  ;  "  but  whal  of  Dora  ?  She  did 
not  die.  I  have  written  to  her,  and  sent  her  many  messages, 
but  never  a  word  has  she  replied,  save  once  " — here  Uucie 
Nat's  voice  grew  tremulous  as  he  added,  "  and  then  she  sent 
nie  this — look — 'twas  Fauuie's  hair,"  and  he  held  to  view 
a  silken  tress  much  like  the*  one  which  lay  next  How- 
ird  Hastiugs's  heart  1  "  Oh,  what  a  child  it  made  of  me, 
the  first  sight  of  this  soft  hair,"  he  continued,  carefully  re 
turning  it  to  its  hiding-place,  without  a  word  of  the  gener 
ous  manner  in  which  it  had  been  paid  for. 

"  Shall  I  tell  him  now  ?"  thought  Mr.  Hastings,  but  Un 
cle  Nathaniel  spoke  before  him,  and  as  if  talking  with  him 
self,  said  softly,  "  Oh,  how  I  loved  her,  and  what  a  wreck 
that  love  has  made  of  me.  But  I  might  have  known  it. 
Twenty-one  year's  difference  in  our  ages,  was  too  great  a 
disparity,  even  had  my  face  been  fair  as  John's.  She  waa 
seventeen,  and  I  was  almost  forty  ;  I  am  sixty  now,  and 
with  every  year  added  to  my  useless  life,  my  love  for  her 
has  strengthened." 

"  Could  you  not  transfer  that  love  to  her  daughter  ?  Il 
might  make  you  happier,"  suggested  Mr.  Hastings,  and 
mournfully  shaking  his  head,  Uncle  Nat  replied,  "  No,  no, 
I've  tried  to  win  her  love  so  hard.  Have  even  thought  of 
going  home,  and  taking  her  to  my  bosom  as  my  own  dar* 
ling  child — but  to  all  my  advances,  she  has  turned  a  deaf 
ear.  I  could  not  make  the  mother  love  ine — I  cannot  make 


MR.  HASTINGS   IN    INDIA.  141 

the  child.  It  isn't  in  me,  the  way  how,  and  I  must  live  here 
all  alone.  I  wouldn't  mind  that  so  much,  for  I'm  used  to  it 
now,  but  when  I  come  to  die,  there  will  be  nobody  to  hold 
my  head,  or  to  speak  to  me  a  word  of  comfort,  unless  God 
sends  Fannie  back  to  me  in  the  dark  hour,  and  who  knows 
but  he  will  ?" 

Covering  his  face  with  his  hands,  Uncle  Nathaniel  cried 
aloud,  while  Mr.  Hastings,  touched  by  his  grief,  and  grow 
ing  each  moment  more  and  more  indignant,  at  the  deception 
practised  upon  the  lonesome  old  man,  said  slowly  and  dis 
tinctly:  "  Dcra  Deane  never  reteived  your  letter — never  dreamed 
how  much  you  loved  her — never  knew  that  you  had  sent  her 
money.  She  has  been  duped — abused — and  you  most  treach 
erously  cheated  by  a  base,  designing  woman  !  To  tell  you  this, 
sir,  I  have  come  over  land  and  sea  !  I  might  have  written  it, 
but  I  would  rather  meet  you  face  to  face — would  know  if  you 
were  worthy  to  be  the  uncle  of  Dora  Deane  /" 

Every  tear  was  dried,  and  bolt  upright,  his  keen  eyes 
flashing  gleams  of  fire,  and  his  glittering  teeth  ground 
firmly  together,  Nathaniel  Deane  sat,  rigid  and  immovable, 
listening  to  the  foul  story  of  Dora's  wrongs,  till  Mr.  Has 
tings  came  to  the  withholding  of  the  letter,  and  the  money 
paid  for  Fanuie's  hair.  Then,  indeed,  his  clenched  fistg 
struck  fiercely  at  the  empty  air,  as  if  Eugenia  had  been 
there,  and  springing  half  way  across  the  room,  he  exclaimed, 
"  The  wretch  !  The  fiend  !  The  beast  !  The  Deeil !  ' 
What  shall  I  call  her  ?  Help  me  to  some  name  which  will 
be  appropriate." 

"  You  are  doing  very  well,  I  think,"  said  Mr.  Hastings, 
muling  in  spite  of  himself  at  this  new  phase  in  the  charac 
ter  of  the  excited  man,  who,  foaming  with  rage,  continued 
to  stalk  up  and  down  the  room,  setting  his  feet  upon  the 
floor  with  vengeance,  and  with  every  breath  denouncing 
Eugenia's  perfidy. 


142  DORA    DEANE. 

*'  Curse  her  !"  he  muttered,  "  for  daring  thus  to  maltreat 
Funnie's  child,  and  for  making  me  to  believe  her  so  ungrate 
ful  and  unkind.  And  she  once  cut  off  her  hair  to  buy  a 
party  dress  with,  you  say,"  he  continued,  stopping  in  front 
of  Mr.  Hastings,  who  nodded  in  the  affirmative,  while  Uncle 
Nat,  as  if  fancying  that  the  few  thin  locks,  which  grew 
upon  his  own  bald  head,  were  Eugenia's  long,  black  tresses, 
clutched  at  them  savagely,  exclaiming,  "  The  selfish 
jade  !  But  I  will  be  avenged,  and  Madam  Eugenia  shall 
rue  the  day  that  she  dared  thus  deceive  me.  That  mother, 
too,  had  not,  it  seems,  been  wholly  guiltless.  She  waa 
jealous  of  my  Fannie — she  has  been  cruel  to  my  child.  I'll 
remember  that,  too  !"  and  a  bitter  laugh  echoed  through 
the  room,  as  the  wrathful  old  man  thought  of  revenge. 

But  as  the  wildest  storm  expends  its  fury,  so  Uncle 
Nat  at  last  grew  calm,  though  on  his  dark  face  there  were 
still  traces  of  the  fierce  passion  which  had  swept  over  it. 
Resuming  his  seat  and  looking  across  the  table  at  Mr.  Has 
tings,  he  said,  "  It  is  not  often  that  old  Nat  Deane  is  moved 
as  you  have  seen  him  moved  to-night  ;  but  the  story  you 
told  me  set  me  on  fire,  and  for  a  moment,  I  felt  that  I  was 
going  mad.  But  I  am  now  myself  again,  and  would  hear 
how  you  learned  all  this." 

In  a  few  words,  Mr.  Hastings  told  of  his  foolish  fancy  for 
Eugenia,  and  related  the  circumstance  of  his  having  over 
heard  her  conversation  at  the  hotel  in  Rochester. 

"  And  Dora,  you  say,  is  beautiful  and  good,"  said  Uncle 
Nat  ;  "  and  I  shall  one  day  know  her  and  see  if  there  is  in 
ber  aught  like  her  angel  mother,  whose  features  are  as  perfect 
to  me  now  as  when  last  I  looked  upon  them  beneath  tie 
locust  trees." 

Bending  low  his  head,  he  seemed  to  be  thinking  of  the 
past,  while  Mr.  Hastings,  kissing  fondly  the  picture  of  Dora 
Deane,  laid  it  softly  upon  the  table,  and  then  anxiously 


MR.  HASTINGS  IN    INDIA.  143 

awaited  the  result.  Uncle  Nathaniel  did  not  see  it  at  first, 
but  his  eye  ere  long  fell  upon  it,  and,  -with  a  cry  like  that 
which  broke  from  his  lips  when  first  he  looked  on  his  dead 
Fannie's  hair,  he  caught  it  up,  exclaiming,  "  'Tis  her — 'tia 
Fannie — my  long  lost  darling,  cotne  back  to  me  from  the 
other  world.  Oh,  Fannie,  Fannie  1"  he  cried,  as  if  hia 
reason  were  indeed  unsettled,  "  I've  been  so  lonesome  here 
without  you.  Why  didn't  you  come  before  ?" 

Again,  for  a  time,  he  was  silent,  and  Mr.  Hastings  could 
see  the  tears  dropping  upon  the  face  of  Dora  Deane,  who 
little  dreamed  of  the  part  she  was  acting,  far  off  in  Hin- 
dostan.  Slowly  the  reality  dawned  upon  Uncle  Nat.,  and 
speaking  to  Mr.  Hastings,  he  said,  "  Who  are  you  that 
moves  me  thus  from  one  extreme  to  another,  maknig  me  first 
a  fury  and  then  a  child'?" 

11 1  have  told  you  I  am  Howard  Hastings,"  answered  the 
young  man,  adding  that  the  picture  was  not  that  of  Fannie, 
but  her  child. 

"  I  know — I  know  it,"  returned  Uncle  Nat,  "  but  the  first 
sight  of  it  drove  me  from  my  senses,  it  is  so  like  her.  The 
same  open  brow,  the  same  blue  eyes,  the  same  ripe  lips,  and 
more  than  all,  the  same  sweet  smile  which  shone  on  me  so 
often  'mid  the  granite  hills  of  New  Hampshire.  And  it  is 
mine,"  he  continued,  making  a  movement  to  put  it  away. 
"  You  brought  it  to  me,  and  in  return,  if  you  have  need  for 
gold,  name  the  sum,  and  it  shall  be  yours,  even  to  half  a 
million." 

Maney  could  not  buy  that  picture  from  Howard  Hastings, 
tnd  though  it  grieved  him  to  do  so,  he  said,  very  gently, 
"  I  cannot  part  with  the  likeness,  Mr.  Deane,  but  we  will 
share  it  together  until  the  original  is  gained." 

Leaning  upon  his  elbows  and  looking  steadily  at  his  visi 
tor,  Uncle  Nathaniel  said,  "  You  have  been  married  once  ?* 


144  DORA    DEANE. 

"  Yes,  sir."  answered  Mr.  Hastings,  while  his  coun 
tenance  flushed,  for  he  readily  understood  the  nature  of  the 
questioning  to  which  he  was  to  be  subjected. 

"  What  was  the  name  of  your  wife  ?"  was  the  next 
query,  and  Mr.  Hastings  replied,  "  Ella  .Grey." 

"  Will  you  describe  her  ?"  said  Uncle  Nat,  and  almost 
&s  vividly  as  the  features  of  Dora  Deane  were  delineated  by 
the  artist's  power,  did  Mr.  Hastings  portray  by  word  the 
laughing  blue  eyes,  the  pale,  childish  face,  the  golden  curls, 
and  little  airy  form  of  her  who  had  once  slept  upon  his 
bosom  as  his  wife. 

"  And  did  you  love  her,  this  Ella  Grey?"  asked  Uncle  Nat. 

"  Love  her  ?  Yes.  But  she  is  dead,"  answered  Mr.  Has 
tings,  while  Uncle  Nat  continued  : 

"  And  now  if  I  mistake  not,  you  love  Dora  Deane  ?" 

"  Yes,  better  than  my  life"  said  Mr.  Hastings,  firmly. 
"  Have  you  any  objections  ?" 

"  None  whatever,"  answered  Uncle  Nat,  "  for,  though  you 
are  a  stranger  to  me,  there  is  that  in  your  face  which  tells 
me  you  would  make  my  darling  happy.  But  it  puzzles  m« 
to  know  how,  loving  one  as  you  say  you  did,  you  can 
forget  and  love  another." 

"  I  have  not  forgotten,"  said  Mr.  Hastings,  sadly  ;  "  God 
forbid  that  I  should  e'er  forget  my  Ella  ;  but,  Mr.  Deane, 
though  she  was  good  and  gentle,  she  was  not  suited  to  me. 
Our  minds  were  wholly  unlike  ;  for  what  I  most  appreciated, 
was  utterly  distasteful  to  her.  She  was  a  fair,  beautiful 
little  creature,  but  she  did  not  satisfy  the  higher,  nobler  feel 
ings  of  my  heart  ;  and  she,  too,  knew  it.  She  told  me  so 
before  she  died,  and  spoke  of  a  coming  time  when  I  would 
love  another.  She  did  not  mention  Dora,  who  then  seemed 
like  a  child,  but  could  she  now  come  back  to  me,  she  would 
approve  my  choice,  for  she,  too,  loved  Dora  Deane." 


MR.  HASTINGS   IN   INDIA.  145 

"  Have  you  told  her  this  ?"  asked  Uticle  Nat — "  told 
Dora  how  much  you  loved  her  ?" 

"  I  have  not,"  was  Mr.  Hastings's  reply.  "  My  sistei 
would  not  suffer  it  until  my  return,  when  Dora  will  be  more 
mature.  At  first  I  would  not  listen  to  this  ;  but  I  yielded 
at  last;  consenting  the  more  willingly  to  the  long  separation, 
•when  I  considered  that  with  Louise  she  was  at  least  safo 
from  Eugenia,  and  I  hope,  safe  from  any  who  might  seek 
either  to  harm  her,  or  win  her  from  me." 

"You  spoke  of  having  stopped  in  Europe  on  your  way 
hither,"  said  Uncle  Nat.  "  How  long  is  it  since  you  left 
New  York  ?" 

"  I  sailed  from  there  the  latter  part,  of  June,  almost  ten 
months  ago,"  was  Mr.  Hastiugs's  answer,  adding  that,  as  he 
wished  to  visit  some  parts  of  Europe,  and  left  home  with 
the  ostensible  purpose  of  doing  so,  he  had  thought  it  advis 
able  to  stop  there  on  his  way,  for  he  well  knew  that  Mr. 
Deane,  after  learning  why  he  had  come,  would  be  impatient 
to  return  immediately. 

"  Yes,  yes  ;  you  are  right,"  answered  the  old  man.  "  I 
would  go  to-morrow  if  possible  ;  but  I  shall  probably  never 
return  to  India,  and  I  must  make  some  arrangements  for 
leaving  my  business  in  the  hands  of  others.  Were  Dora 
still  in  Eugenia's  power,  I  would  not  tarry  a  moment.  I 
would  sacrifice  everything  to  save  her,  but  as  you  say  she  is 
safe  with  your  sister,  and  a  few  week's  delay,  though  annoy 
ing 'to  me,  will  make  no  difference  with  her.  Do  they  know 
aught  of  this — those  wretches  in  Dunwood  ?"  he  continued, 
Irgimiing  to  grow  excited. 

"  They  suppose  me  to  be  in  Europe,  for  to  no  one  save 
D/  mother  and  sister,  did  I  breathe  a  \vord  of  India,"  Mr. 
Hastings  replied  ;  and  Uncle  Nat  rojoiueJ,  "  Let  them  con 
tinue  to  think  so,  then.  I  would  rather  they  should  not 

1 


t4«  i)ORA    DEANE. 

suspect  ray  presence  in  America  until  I  meet  them  face  to 
face,  and  taunt  them  with  their  treachery.  It  shall  not  be 
long,  either,  before  I  do  it.  In  less  than  a  month,  we  are 
homeward  bound — and  then,  Miss  Eugenia  Deane — we'll 
see !"  aad  his  hard  fist  came  down  upon  the  table,  as  he 
thought  of  her  dismay  when  told  that  he  stood  before  her. 

But  alas  for  Uncle  Nat  !  The  time  was  farther  in  the 
distance  than  he  anticipated.  The  excitement  of  what  he 
had  heard,  told  upon  a  frame  already  weakened  by  constant 
toil  and  exposure  in  the  sultry  climate  of  India,  and  one 
week  from  the  night  of  Mr.  Hastings's  arrival,  the  old 
man  lay  burning  with  fever,  which  was  greatly  augmented 
by  the  constant  chafing  at  the  delay  this  unexpected  illness 
would  cause.  Equally  impatient,  Mr.  Hastings  watched 
over  him,  while  his  heart  grew  faint  with  hope  deferred,  as 
weeks,  and  even  months,  glided  by  ;  while  vessel  after  ves 
sel  sailed  away,  leaving  Uncle  Nat  prostrate  and  powerless 
to  move.  He  had  never  been  sick  before  in  all  his  life,  and 
his  shattered  frame  was  long  in  rallying,  so  that  the  sum 
mer,  and  the  autumn  and  a  part  of  the  winter  passed  away, 
ere,  leaning  heavily  on  Mr.  Hastings's  arm,  he  went  on  board 
the  ship  which  was  to  take  him  home — take  him  to  Dora 
Deane,  who  had  listened  wonderingly  to  the  story  of  hei 
wrongs,  told  her  by  Mrs.  Elliott  at  Mr.  Hastings's  request. 

Indignant  as  she  was  at  Eugenia,  she  felt  more  than  re 
paid  for  all  she  had  suffered,  by  the  knowledge  that  Uncle 
Nat  had  always  loved  her  ;  and  many  a  cheering  letter  from 
her  found  its  way  to  the  bedside  of  the  invalid,  who  laid  each 
one  beneath  his  pillow,  beside  the  picture  which  Mr.  Hast 
ings  suffered  him  to  keep.  More  than  once,  too,  had  Dora 
written  to  Mr.  Hastings  kind,  sisterly  notes,  with  which  he 
tried  to  be  satisfied,  for  he  saw  that  she  was  the  same  frank, 
ingenuous  girl  he  had  left,  and  from  one  or  two  things  whicb 


MR.  HASTINGS   IN   INDIA.  U7 

she  wrote,  he  fancied  he  was  not  indifferent  to  her.  "  She 
did  not,  at  least,  care  for  another,"  so  Louise  assured  him. 
There  was  comfort  in  that,  and  during  the  weary  days  when 
their  floating  home  lay,  sometimes  becalmed  and  sometimes 
tossed  by  adverse  winds,  he  and  Uncle  Nat  whiled  away  the 
tedious  hours,  by  talking  of  the  happiness  which  awaited 
them  when  home  was  reached  at  last. 

During  Mr.  Deane's  illness,  Mr.  Hastings  had  suggested 
that  the  annual  remittance  be  sent  to  Dunwood,  as  usual, 
lest  they  should  suspect  that  something  was  wrong,  if  it 
were  withheld,  and  to  this  Uncle  Nat  reluctantly  consented, 
saying,  as  he  did  so,  "  It's  the  last  dime  they'll  ever  receive 
from  me.  I'll  see  her  starve  before  my  eyes,  that  girl  Eu 
genia." 

Still,  as  the  distance  between  himself  and  the  young  lady 
dimii.ished,  he  felt  a  degree  of  satisfaction  in  knowing  that 
the  draft  had  as  usual  been  sent,  thus  lulling  her  into  a  state 
of  security  with  regard  to  himself.  Rapturously  he  talked 
of  the  meeting  with  Dora,  but  his  eye  was  fiery  in  its  ex 
pression  when  he  spoke  of  that  other  meeting,  when  Euge 
nia  would  be  the  accused  and  he  the  wrathful  accuser.  The 
invigorating  sea  breeze  did  him  good,  and  when  at  last  the 
Cape  was  doubled  and  he  knew  that  the  waves  which 
dashed  against  the  ship,  bore  the  same  name  with  those 
which  kissed  the  shores  of  America,  he  stood  forth  upon  tho 
deck,  tall  and  erect  as  ever,  with  an  eager,  expectant  look 
in  his  eye,  which  increased  as  he  each  day  felt  that  he  dretf 
Bearer  and  nearer  to  his  home — and  Dora  Deane  ' 


(44  DORA    DEANB. 


CHAPTER    XIX. 

THE    MEETING. 

ONE  bright,  beautiful  summer  morning,  a  noble  vessel 
was  sailing  slowly  into  the  harbor  of  New  York.  Groups 
of  passengers  stood  upon  her  deck,  and  a  little  apart  from 
the  rest  were  Uncle  Nat  and  Howard  Hastings,  the  former 
gazing  eagerly  towards  the  city,  which  had  more  than 
doubled  its  population  since  last  he  looked  upon  it. 

"  We  are  almost  home,"  he  said  to  his  companion,  joy 
fully,  for  though  the  roof  that  sheltered  his  childhood  wag 
further  to  the  northward,  among  the  granite  hills,  he  knew 
that  it  was  America,  the  land  of  his  birth,  which  lay  before 
him,  and  as  a  child  returns  to  its  mother  after  a  long  and 
weary  absence,  so  did  his  heart  yearn  towards  the  shore  they 
were  fast  approaching. 

A  crowd  of  memories  came  rushing  over  him,  and  when, 
at  last,  the  plank  was  lowered,  he  was  obliged  to  lean  upon 
the'  stronger  arm  of  Howard  Hastings,  who,  procuring  a 
carriage,  bade  the  hackman  drive  them  at  once  to  his  sister's. 
For  some  time  Mrs.  Elliott  and  Dora  had  been  looking  for 
the  travellers,  whose  voyage  was  unusually  long,  and  they 
had  felt  many  misgivings  lest  the  treacherous  sea  had  not 
been  faithful  to  its  trust ;  but  this  morning  they  were  not 
expecting  them,  and  wishing  to  make  some  arrangements 
for  removing  to  her  country  seat  on  the  Hudson,  Mrs.  Elliott 
had  gone  out  there  and  taken  Dora  with  her.  Mr.  Hast? 


THE    MEETING.  149 

ings's  first  impulse  was  to  follow  them,  but  knowing  that  they 
would  surely  be  homo  that  night,  aud  remembering  how 
weary  Uucle  Nathaniel  was,  he  wisely  concluded  to  remain 
in  the  city  and  suprise  them  on  their  return. 

Like  one  in  a  dream,  Uncle  Nat  walked  from  room  to 
room,  asking  every  half  hour  if  it  were  not  almost  time  for 
the  train,  aud  wondering  if  Dora  would  recognize  him  if  no 
one  told  her  who  he  was.  Scarcely  less  excited,  Mr.  Hast- 
ins,  too,  waited  and  watched  ;  and  when,  just  at  dark,  ho 
heard  the  door  unclose,  and  Dora's  voice  in  the  hall  without, 
the  rapid  beating  of  his  heart  was  distinctly  audible. 

"  That's  her — that's  Dora.  I'll  go  to  her  at  once,"  said 
CTncle  Nat  ;  but  Mr.  Hastings  kept  him  back,  and  Dora 
passed  on  to  her  room,  from  which  she  soon  returned,  and 
they  could  hear  the  sound  of  her  footsteps  upon  the  stairs,  as 
she  drew  near. 

With  his  face  of  a  deathlike  whiteness,  his  lips  apart,  and 
the  perspiration  standing  thickly  about  them,  Uncle  Nat 
sat  leaning  forward,  his  eyes  fixed  upon  the  door  through 
which  she  would  enter.  In  a  moment  she  stood  before 
them — Dora  Deane — but  far  more  lovely  than  Mr.  Hast 
ings  had  thought  or  dreamed.  Nearly  two  years  before,  he 
had  left  her  a  school  girl,  as  it  were,  and  now  he  found  her 
a  beautiful  woman,  bearing  about  her  an  unmistakable  air 
of  refinement  and  high  breeding.  She  knew  him  in  an  instant, 
aud  with  an  exclamation  of  surprised  delight,  was  hasten 
ing  forward,  when  a  low,  moaning  cry,  from  another  part 
of  the  room,  arrested  her  ear,  causing  her  to  pause  ere  Mr. 
Hastings  was  reached. 

Uncle  Nat  had  recognized  her — knew  that  she  was  Doia, 
and  attempted  to  rise,  but  his  strength  utterly  foiled  him, 
and  stretching  out  his  trembling  arms  towards  her,  he  said, 
Bupplicatingly,  "me. first,  Dora — me  first." 


150  DORA    DEANE. 

It  wa».  sufficient,  and  Dora  passed  on  with  a  welcoming 
glance  at  Mr.  Hastings,  who  feeling  that  it  was  not  for  him 
to  witness  that  meeting,  glided  noiselessly  from  the  room  in 
quest  of  his  sisier.  Fondly  the  old  man  clasped  the  yonng 
girl  to  his  bosoro,  and  Dora  could  hear  the  whispered  bless 
ings  which  he  breathed  over  her,  and  felt  the  hot  tears 
dropping  f/u  Lf  r  oheek. 

"  Speak  to  'jQ'j,  darling,"  he  said  at  last  ;  "  let  me  hear 
your  ov.n  Wje  assuring  me  that  never  again  shall  we  be 
parted,  wAil  yjar  mother  calls  for  me  to  come  and  be  with 
her." 

Loc>'ng  lovingly  up  into  his  face,  Dora  answered,  "  I 
will  never  leave  nor  forsake  you,  my  father,  but  wherever 
your  home  may  be  there  will  mine  be  also." 

Clasping  her  still  closer  in  his  arms,  he  said,  "  God  blesa 
you,  my  child,  for  so  I  will  call  yoa,  and  never,  I  am  sure, 
did  earthly  parent  love  more  fondly  an  only  daughter  than 
I  love  you,  my  precious  Dora.  I  have  yearned  so  often  to 
behold  you,  to  look  into  your  eyes  and  hear  you  say  that  I 
was  loved,  and  now  that  it  has  come  to  me,  I  am  willing, 
almost,  to  die." 

Releasing  her  after  a  moment,  and  holding  her  off  at  a 
little  distance,  he  looked  earnestly  upon  her,  saying,  as  he 
did  so,  "  Yes,  you  are  like  her — like  your  mother,  Dora. 
Some,  perhaps,  would  call  you  even  more  beautiful,  but  to 
me  there  is  not  in  all  the  world  a  face  more  fair  than  hers." 

In  his  delight  at  seeing  her,  he  forgot  for  the  time  being 
how  deeply  she  had  been  injured,  and  it  was  well  that  he  did, 
for  now  nothing  marred  the  happiness  of  this  meeting,  and  for 
half  an  hour  longer  he  sat  with  her  alone,  talking  but  little, 
but  lookiog  ever  at  the  face  so  much  like  her  whom  he  had 
loved  and  lost.  At  last,  as  if  suddenly  remembering  him 
self,  he  said,  "Excuse  me,  Dora;  the  sight  of  you  drove 


THE    MEETIXG.  151 

«^  other  thought  from  nay  mind,  and  I  have  kept  "you 
toe  v  *ig  from  one  who  loves  you  equally  well  with  myself, 
and  who  must  be  impatient  at  the  delay.  He  is  worthy  of 
you,  too,  my  child,"  he  continued,  without  observing  how  the 
color  faded  from  Dora's  cheeks.  "He  is  a  noble  young 
man,  and  no  son  was  ever  kinder  to  a  father  than  he  haa 
been  to  me,  since  the  night  when  I  welcomed  him  to  my 
home  in  India.  Go  to  him,  then,  my  daughter,  and  ask  him 
to  forgive  my  selfishness." 

From  several  little  occurrences,  Dora  had  received  the  im 
pression  that  a  marriage  between  herself  and  Mr.  Hastings 
would  not  be  distasteful  to  his  sister,  but  she  had  treated 
the  subject  lightly  as  something  impossible.  Still  the 
thought  of  his  loving  another  was  fraught  with  pain,  and 
when  at  last  she  knew  that  he  was  on  the  stormy  sea,  and 
felt  that  danger  might  befall  him — when  the  faces  of  his 
mother  and  sister  wore  an  anxious,  troubled  look  as  days 
went  by,  bringing  them  no  tidings — when  she  thought  it  just 
possible  that  he  would  never  return  to  them  again,  it  came 
to  her  just  as  two  years  before  it  had  come  to  him,  and  sit 
ting  alone  in  her  pleasant  chamber,  she,  more  than  once, 
had  wept  bitterly,  as  she  thought  how  much  she  loved  him, 
and  how  improbable  it  was  that  he  should  care  for  her,  whom 
he  had  found  almost  a  beggar  girl. 

In  the  first  surprise  of  meeting  him  she  had  forgotten  every 
thing,  save  that  he  had  returned  to  them  in  safety,  and  her 
manner  towards  him  then  was  perfectly  natural  ;  but  now, 
when  Uncle  Nat,  after  telling  what  he  did,  bade  her  go  to 
him,  she  quitted  the  room  reluctantly,  and  much  &s  she 
wished  to  see  him,  she  would  undoubtedly  have  run  away 
up  stairs,  had  she  not  met  him  in  the  hall,  together  with 
Mrs.  Elliott,  who  was  goiug  to  pay  her  respects  to  Uncl« 
Nat. 


152  DORA    DEANE. 

'•  I  have  not  spoken  with  you  yet,  Dora,"  he  said,  taking 
her  hand  between  both  his.  "  Go  in  there,"  motioning  to 
the  room  he  had  just  left,  "  and  wait  until  I  present  Louise 
to  yonr  uncle." 

It  was  a  habit  of  Dora's  always  to  cry  just  when  she 
wished  to  least,  and  now  entering  the  little  music  room,  she 
threw  herself  upon  the  sofa  and  burst  into  tears.  Thus  Mr. 
]  Tastings  found  her  on  his  return,  and  sitting  down  by  her 
side,  he  said  gently,  "  Are  you,  then,  so  glad  that  I  have 
corno  home  ?" 

Dora  would  not,  for  the  world,  let  him  know  her  real 
feelings,  and  she  answered,  "  Yes,  I  am  glad,  but  I  am  cry 
ing  at  what  Uncle  Nat  said  to  me." 

Mr.  Hastings  bit  his  lip,  for  this  was  not  exactly  the  kind 
of  meeting  he  had  anticipated,  and  after  sitting  an  awkward 
moment,  during  which  he  was  wishing  that  she  had  not  ans 
wered  him  as  she  did,  he  said  :  "Will  you  not  look  up, 
Dora,  and  tell  me  how  you  have  passed  the  time  of  my  ab 
sence  ?  I  am  sure  you  have  improved  it,  both  from  your  own 
appearance  and  what  Louise  has  told  me." 

This  was  a  subject  on  which  Dora  felt  that  she  could  trust 
herself,  and  drying  her  tears,  she  became  very  animated  aa 
she  told  him  of  the  books  she  had  read,  and  the  studies  she 
had  pursued.  "  I  have  taken  music  lessons,  too,"  she  added. 
"  Would  you  like  to  hear  me  play  ?" 

Mr.  Hastings  would  far  rather  have  sat  there,  watching 
her  bright  face,  with  his  arm  thrown  lightly  around  her 
waist,  but  it  was  this  very  act,  this  touch  of  his  arm,  which 
prompted  her  proposal,  and  gracefully  disengaging  herself, 
vhc  crossed  over  to  the  piano,  which  was  standing  in  the 
room,  and  commenced  singing  the  old,  and  on  that  occasion, 
very  appropriate  song  of  "Home  again,  home  again,  from 
a  foreign  shore."  The  tones  of  her  voice  were  rich  and  full, 


THE    MEETING.  16* 

and  they  reached  the  ear  of  Uncle  Nat,  wlio  in  his  eager 
ness  to  listen,  forgot  everything,  until  Mrs.  Elliott  said,  'It 
«>s  Dora  singing  to  my  brother.  Shall  we  join  them  ?" 

Leading  the  way  she  ushered  him  into  the  music  room, 
where,  standing  at  Dora's  side,  he  listened  rapturously  to 
her  singing,  occasionally  wiping  away  a  tear,  called  forth 
by  the  memories  that  song  had  awakened.  The  sight  of 
the  piano  reminded  him  of  Eugenia,  and  when  Dora  had 
finished  playing,  he  laid  his  broad  hand  upon  her  shoulder 
and  said,  "  Do  you  ever  hear  from  them — the  villains  ?" 

Dora  knew  to  whom  he  referred,  and  half  laughing  at  his 
excited  manner,  she  replied,  as  she  stole  a  mischievous 
glance  towards  Mr.  Hastings,  "  I  received  a  letter  from  Eu 
genia  not  long  since,  and  she  seemed  very  anxious  to  know 
in  what  part  of  Europe  Mr.  Hastings  was  now  travelling,  and 
if  he  were  ever  coming  home  1" 

"  Much  good  his  coming  home  will  do  her,  the  trollop  /" 
muttered  Uncle  Nat,  whispering  incoherently  to  himself  as  he 
generally  did,  when  Eugenia  was  the  subject  of  his  thoughts. 
"Don't  answer  the  letter,"  he  said  at  last,  "or,  if  you 
do,  say  nothing  of  me  ;  I  wish  to  meet  them  first  as  a 
stranger." 

Near  the  window  Mr.  Hastings  was  standing,  revolving 
in  his  own  mind  a  double  surprise  which  he  knew  would  mor 
tify  Eugenia  more  than  anything  else.  But  in  order  to  ef 
fect  this,  Uncle  Nat  must  remain  incog,  for  some  time  yet, 
while  Dora  herself  must  be  won,  and  this,  with  the  jealous 
fears  of  a  lover,  he  fancied  might  be  harder  to  accomplish 
than  the  keeping  Uncle  Nat  silent  when  in  the  presence  of 
Eugenia. 

"  To-morrow  I  will  see  her  alone,  and  know  the  worst," 
he  thought,  and  glancing  at  Dora,  he  felt  a  thrill  of  feat 
lest  she,  in  all  the  freshness  of  her  youth,  should  refuse  hef 

7* 


154  DORA    DEANE. 

heart,  to  one,  who  had  called  another  than  herself  his 
wife. 

But  Ella  Grey  had  never  awakened  a  love  as  deep  and  ab- 
sorbing  as  that  which  he  now  felt  for  Dora  Deane,  and  all 
that  night  he  lay  awake,  wondering  how  he  should  ap 
proach  her,  and  fancying  sometimes  that  he  saw  the  cold 
surprise  with  which  she  would  listen  to  him,  and  again  that 
he  read  in  her  dark  blue  eyes  the  answer  which  he  sought. 
The  morrow  came,  but  throughout  the  entire  day,  he  found 
no  opportunity  of  speaking  to  her  alone,  for  Uncle  Nat 
hovered  near  her  side,  gazing  at  her  as  if  he  would  never 
tire  of  looking  at  her  beautiful  face.  And  Dora,  too,  had 
much  to  say  to  the  old  man,  on  this  the  first  day  after  his 
return.  With  his  head  resting  upon  her  lap,  and  her  soft 
white  hand  upon  his  wrinkled  brow,  she  told  him  of  her 
mother,  and  the  message  she  had  left  for  him  on  the  sad 
night  when  she  died.  Then  she  spoke  of  her  aunt  Sarah, 
of  Eugenia  and  Alice,  and  the  wrath  of  Uncle  Nat  was 
somewhat  abated,  when  he  heard  fier  pleading  with  him  not 
to  be  so  angry  and  unforgiving — 

"  I  can  treat  Alice  well,  perhaps,"  he  said,  "  for  she,  it 
seems,  was  never  particularly  unkind.  And  for  your  sake, 
I  may  forgive  the  mother.  But  Eugenia  never  ! — not  even 
if  Fannie  herself  should  ask  me  1" 

Thus  passed  that  day,  and  when  the  next  one  came. 
Uncle  Nat  still  staid  at  Dora's  side,  following  her  from 
room  to  room,  and  never  for  a  moment  leaving  Mr.  Hastings 
with  her  alone.  In  this  manner  nearly  a  week  went  by,  and 
the  latter  was  beginning  to  despair,  when  one  evening  as 
the  three  were  together  in  the  little  music  room,  and  Mrs. 
Elliott  was  with  her  mother,  who  was  ill,  it  suddenly  occurred 
to  Uncle  Nat  that  he  had  appropriated  Dora  entirely  to 
himself,  not  giving  Mr.  Hastings  a  single  opportunity  fof 
her  alone. 


THE    MEETING.  151 

"  I  have  wondered  that  he  did  not  tell  me  he  was  en« 
gaged,"  he  thought,  "  but  how  could  he  when  I  haven't 
g'.ven  him  a  chance  to  speak  to  her,  unless  he  did  it  before 
me  ;  strange,  I  should  be  so  selfish  :  but  I'll  make  amenda 
oow — though  I  do  hope  he'll  be  quick  !" 

Rising  up,  he  walked  to  the  door,  when  thinking  that  Mr. 
Hastings  might  possibly  expect  him  to.  return  every  mo 
ment,  and  so  keep  silent,  he  said,  "  I've  been  in  the  way  of 
you  young  folks  long  enough,  and  I  feel  just  as  if  something 
might  happen  if  I  left  you  together  1  Call  me  when  you 
want  me?"  so  saying  he  shut  the  door,  and  Mr.  Hastings 
was  alone  at  last  with  Dora  Deane  1 

Both  knew  to  what  Uncle  Nat  referred,  and  while  Dora 
fidgeted  from  one  thing  to  another,  looking  at  a  book  of 
prints  wrong  side  up,  and  admiring  the  pictures,  Mr.  Hast 
ings  sat  perfectly  still,  wondering  why  he  was  so  much 
afraid  of  her.  Two  years  before  he  felt  no  fear  ;  but  a 
refusal  at  that  time  would  not  have  affected  him  as  it 
would  do  now,  for  he  did  not  then  know  how  much  he  loved 
her.  Greatly  he  desired  that  she  should  speak  to  him — 
look  at  him — or  do  something  to  break  the  embarrassing 
silence ;  but  this  Dora  had  no  intention  of  doing,  and  she 
was  just  meditating  the  propriety  of  running  away,  when  ho 
found  voice  enough  to  say,  "  Will  you  come  and  sit  by  me, 
Dora  ?" 

She  had  always  obeyed  him,  and  she  did  so  now,  taking 
a  seat,  however,  as  far  from  him  as  possible,  on  the  end  of 
the  sofa.  Still,  when  he  moved  up  closely  to  her  side, 
and  wound  his  arm  about  her,  she  did  not  object,  though 
her  face  burned  with  blushes,  and  she  thought  it  quite  likely 
that  her  next  act  would  be  to  cry  !  And  this  she  did  do, 
when  he  said  to  her,  "  Dora,  do  you  remember  the  night 
when  Ella  died  ?" 


tftg  DORA    DEANE. 

He  did  not  expect  any  answer  yet,  and  he  continued, 
"  She  told  me,  you  know,  of  a  time  when,  though  not  for 
getting  her,  I  should  love  another— should  seek  to  call 
another  my  wife.  And,  Dora,  she  was  right,  for  I  do  lor* 
another,  better,  if  it  be  possible,  than  I  did  my  lost  Ella. 
'Tis  four  years  since  she  left  me,  and  now  that  I  would  have 
a  second  wife,  will  the  one  whom  I  have  chosen  from  all  the 
world  to  be  that  wife,  answer  me  yes  ?  Will  she  go  back 
with  me  in  the  autumn  to  my  long  deserted  home,  where  her 
presence  always  brought  sunlight  and  joy  ?" 

There  was  no  coquetry  about  Dora  Deane,  and  she  could 
not  have  practised  it  now,  if  there  had  been.  She  knew 
Mr.  Hastings  was  in  earnest — knew  that  he  meant  what  he 
said — and  the  little  hand,  which  at  first  had  stolen  partly 
under  her  dress,  lest  he  should  touch  it,  came  back  from  its 
hiding-place,  and  crept  slowly  along  until  his  was  reached, 
and  there  she  let  it  lay  1  This  was  her  answer,  and  he  was 
satisfied  ! 

For  a  long,  long  time  they  sat  together,  while  Mr.  Hast 
ings  talked,  not  wholly  of  the  future  when  she  would  be  his 
wife,  but  of  the  New  Year's  morning,  years  ago,  when  he 
found  her  sleeping  in  the  chamber  of  death — of  the  bright 
Juue  afternoon,  when  she  sat  with  her  bare  feet  in  the  run 
ning  brook — of  the  time  when  she  first  brought  comfort  to 
his  home — of  the  dark,  rainy  evening,  when  the  sight  of 
her  sitting  in  Ella's  room,  with  Ella's  baby  on  her  lap,  had 
cheered  his  aching  heart — of  the  storm  she  had  braved  to 
tell  him  his  baby  was  dying — of  the  winter  night  when  he 
watched  her  through  the  window — of  the  dusky  twilight 
when  she  sat  at  his  feet  in  the  little  library  at  Rose  Hill — 
and  again  in  his  sister's  home  on  the  Hudson,  when  he  first 
knew  how  much  he  loved  her.  Of  all  these  pictures  so  in- 
ielibly  stamped  upon  his  memory,  he  told  her,  and  of  th« 


THE    MEETING.  167 

many,  many  limes  his  thoughts  had  been  of  her  when  afur 
on  a  foreign  shore. 

And  Dora,  listening  to  him,  did  not  care  to  answer,  her 
oeart  was  so  full  of  happiness,  to  know  that  she  should  h« 
Urns  loved  by  one  like  Howard  Hastings.  From  a  tower  not  fai 
.li^taut,  a  city  clock  struck  twelve,  and  then,  starting  up,  she  ex- 
daiu  xl,  "  So  late!  I  thought 'twas  only  ten  !  We  have  kept 
Uncle  N&o  too  long.  Will  you  go  with  me  to  him  ?"  and  with 
his  arms  still  around  her,  Mr.  Hastings  arose  to  accompany  her. 

For  half  an  hour  after  leaving  the  music-room  Uncle  Nat 
had  walked  up  and  down  the  long  parlors,  with  his  hands 
in  his  pockets,  hoping  Mr.  Hastings  would  be  brief,  and 
expecting  each  moment  to  hear  Dora  calling  him  back  !  la 
this  manner  an  hour  or  more  went  by,  and  then  grown  very 
nervous  and  cold  (for  it  was  a  damp,  chilly  night,  such  as 
often  occurs  in  our  latitude,  even  in  summer)  he  began  to 
think  that  if  Dora  were  not  coming,  a  fire  would  be  accep 
table,  and  he  drew  his  chair  near  to  the  register,  which  was 
closed.  Wholly  unaccustomed  to  furnaces,  he  did  not  think 
to  open  it,  and  for  a  time  longer  he  sat  wondering  why  he 
didn't  grow  warm,  and  if  it  took  everybody  as  long  to  pro 
pose  as  it  did  Mr.  Hastings. 

It  "  didn't  take  me  long  to  tell  my  love  to  Fanny,"  he  said, 
"  but  then  she  refused,  and  when  they  accept,  as  Dora  will, 
it's  always  a  longer  process,  I  reckon  !" 

This  point  satisfactorily  settled,  he  began  to  wish  the 
atmosphere  of  the  room  would  moderate,  and  hitching  in 
bis  chair,  he  at  last  sat  directly  over  the  register  !  but  even 
,his  failed  to  warm  him,  and  mentally  concluding  that, 
*  though  furnaces  might  do  very  well  for  New  Yorkers,  they 
irere  of  no  account  whatever  to  an  East  India  man,"  he  fell 
asleep.  In  this  situation,  Dora  found  him. 

"  Poor  old  man.-""  said  she,  "  'twas  thoughtless  in  me  te 


158  DORA    DEANE. 

leave  him  so  long,"  a,nd  kissing  his  brow,  she  cried,  "  Wake 
up,  Uncle  Nat — wake  up!"  and  Uncle  Nat  rubbing  his  eyea 
with  his  red  stiff  fingers,  and  looking  in  her  glowing  face, 
knew  "  that  something  had  happened  I" 


fHE    SrRINGS. 


CHAPTER     XX. 

THE    SPRINGS. 

MR.  HASTINGS  and  Dora  were  engaged.  Mrs.  Hastings, 
the  mother,  and  Mrs.  Elliott,  the  sister,  had  signified  their 
entire  approbation,  while  Uncle  Nat,  with  a  hand  placed  on 
either  head  of  the  young  people,  had  blessed  them  as  his 
children,  hinting  the  while  that  few  brides  e'er  went  forth  as 
richly  dowered  as  should  Dora  Deane.  The  marriage  was  not 
to  take  place  until  the  following  October,  as  Mr.  Hastings 
wished  to  make  some  improvements  at  Rose  Hill,  which  was 
still  to  be  his  home  proper,  though  Uncle  Nat  insisted  upon 
buying  a  very  elegant  house  in  the  city  for  a  winter  residence, 
whenever  they  chose  thus  to  use  it.  To  this  proposal  Mr. 
Hastings  made  no  objection,  for  though  he  felt  that  his 
greatest  happiness  would  be  in  having  Dora  all  to  himself  in 
Dunwood,  he  knew  that  society  in  the  city  would  never  have 
the  effect  upon  her  which  it  did  upon  Ella,  for  her  tastes, 
like  his  own,  were  domestic,  and  on  almost  every  subject 
she  felt  and  thought  as  he  did. 

Immediately  after  his  engagement  he  imparted  to  Uncle 
Nat  a  knowledge  of  the  double  surprise  he  had  planned  for 
Eugenia,  and  the  old  gentleman  at  last  consented,  saying, 
though,  that  "  'twas  doubtful  whether  he  could  hold  him 
self  together  when  first  he  met  the  young  lady.  StLU,  with 
Mr  Hastings's  presence  as  a  check,  he  would  try  " 


f»0  DORA    DEANE. 

So  it  was  arranged  that  in  Dunwood,  where  Mr.  Hixstings'a 
return  was  still  unknown,  Uncle  Nat  should  pass  as  a  Mr 
Hamilton,  whom  Mr.  Hastings  had  picked  up  in  his  travels. 
Four  years  of  his  earlier  life  had  been  spent  in  South 
America,  and  whenever  he  spoke  of  any  particular 
place  of  abode  it  was  to  be  of  Buenos  Ayres,  where  he  had 
once  resided.  By  this  means  he  could  the  more  easily  learn 
for  himself  the  character  and  disposition  of  his  relatives, 
and  feeling  now  more  eager  than  ever  to  meet  them,  he  here 
started  with  Mr.  Hastings  for  Dunwood.  It  was  morning 
when  they  reached  there,  and  with  a  dark,  lowering  brow, 
he  looked  curiously  at  the  house  which  his  companion  desig 
nated  as  Locust  Grove,.  It  was  a  pleasant  spot,  and  it 
Bcemed  almost  impossible  that  it  should  be  the  home  of  a 
woman  as  artful  and  designing  as  Eugenia.  About  it  now, 
however,  there  was  an  air  of  desertion.  The  doors  were 
shut  and  the  blinds  closed,  as  if  the  inmates  were  absent. 

On  reaching  Rose  Hill,  where  he  found  his  servants  over 
whelmed  with  delight  at  his  unexpected  return,  Mr.  Has 
tings  casually  inquired  of  Mrs.  Leah  if  the  Deanes  were  at 
home.  A  shadow  passed  over  the  old  lady's  face,  and  fold 
ing  her  arms,  she  leaned  against  the  door  and  began  :  "  I 
wonder  now,  if  you're  askin'  after  them  the  first  thing  !  I 
don't  know  but  they  are  well  enough,  all  but  E'»"-"  iia.  I 
believe  I  never  disliked  anybody  as  I  do  her,  ami  •;•>  won 
der,  the  way  she's  gone  on.  At  first  she  used  to  «  .;>ce  up 
here  almost  every  week  on  purpose  to  ask  about  you,  though 
she  pretended  to  tumble  over  your  books,  and  mark  'em  all 
up  with  her  pencil.  But  when  that  scapegrace  Stephen 
Grey  came,  she  took  another  tuck,  and  the  way  she  and  ha 
went  on  was  scandalous.  She  was  a  runnin'  up  here  the 
whole  time  that  he  wasn't  a  streakin'  it  down  there." 

"  Stephen  Grey  been  here  ?     When  and  what  for  ?"  inter 


THE    SPRINGS.  161 

rupted  Mr.  Hastings,  who,  as  his  father-in-law,  during  hia 
absence,  had  removed  to  Philadelphia,  knew  nothing  of  the 
family. 

"  You  may  well  ask  that,"  returned  Mrs.  Leah,  growing 
much  excited  as  she  remembered  the  trouble  the  fast 
g  man  had  made  her.  "  Last  fall  in  shootin'  time,  he 
came  here,  bag,  baggage,  guns,  dogs  and  all — said  it  didn't 
make  a  speck  of  difference,  you  being  away — 'twas  all  in  the 
family,  and  so  you'd  a'  thought,  the  way  he  went  on,  drinkin, 
sweariu',  shootin',  and  carousin'  with  a  lot  of  fellers  who  staid 
with  him  here  a  spell,  and  then,  when  they  were  gone,  he  took 
a  flirtin'  with  Eugenia  Deane,  who  told  him,  I'll  bet,  more'n 
fire  hundred  lies  about  an  old  uncle  that,  she  says,  is  rich 
as  a  Jew,  and  has  willed  his  property  to  her  and  Alice." 

"  The  viper  !"  muttered  Uncle  Nat  to  himself  ;  and  Mrs. 
Leah  continued,  "  I  shouldn't  woucler  if  old  Mr.  Grey  was 
gettiu'  poor,  and  Steve,  I  guess,  would  marry  anybody  who 
had  money  ;  but  Lord  knows  I  don't  want  him  to  have  her, 
for  though  he  ain't  an  atom  too  good,  I  used  to  live  in  the 
family,  and  took  care  of  him  when  he  was  little.  I  should 
a'  written  about  his  carryin's  on  to  Mrs.  Elliott,  only  I  knew 
she  didn't  think  any  too  much  of  the  Greys,  and  'twould 
only  trouble  her  for  nothiu'." 

"  But  where  are  they  now — Mrs.  Deane  and  her  daugh 
ters  ?"  asked  Mr.  Hastings  ;  and  Mrs.  Leah  replied,  "  Gone 
to  Avon  Springs  ;  ind  folks  do  say  they've  done  their  own 
woik,  and  ate  cold  victuals  off  the  pantry  shelf  ever  since  last 
November,  so  as  to  save  money,  to  cut  a  swell.  I  guess  Eu« 
Ereda'll  be  mighty  glad  if  that  old  uncle  ever  dies.  For  my 
part,  I  hope  he  won't  1  or,  if  he  does,  I  hope  he  won't  leave 
her  a  dollar." 

"  Not  a  dime .'"  thought  Uncle  Nat,  who,  not  being  sup 
posed  to  feel  interested  in  Eugenia  Deane,  had  tried  to  ap- 


162  DORA    DEANE. 

pear  indifferent,  holding  hard  the  while  upon  the  roinds  of 
his  chair  "  to  keep  himself  together." 

Alone  with  Mr.  Hastings,  his  wrath  burst  forth,  but  after 
a  few  tremendous  explosions,  he  grew  calm,  and  proposed 
that  they  too  should  g®  at  once  to  Avon.  "  We  shall  then 
see  the  lady  in  all  her  glory,"  said  he,  "  and  maybe  hear 
something  about  her  old  uncle,  though  you'll  have  to  keep 
your  eye  on  me,  or  I  shall  go  off  on  a  sudden,  and  shake 
her  as  a  dog  would  a  snake  !  We'll  send  for  Mrs.  Elliott 
and  Dora  to  join  us  there,"  he  continued  ;  "  it  will  be  fun 
io  bring  them  together,  and  see  what  Eugenia  will  do." 

"  I  am  afraid  you  could  not  restrain  yourself,"  said  Mr. 
'Castings  ;  but  Uncle  Nat  was  sure  he  could,  and  after  a  few 
t'ays  they  started  for  Avon,  where  "  Miss  Eugenia  Deaue, 
ilie  heiress,"  was  quite  a  belle. 

For  a  long  time  after  Mr.  Hastings's  departure  for  Eu- 
Tope,  she  had  remained  true  to  him,  feeding  on  the  remem 
brance  of  his  parting  words,  that  "  he  had  more  reasons  for 
remembering  her  than  she  supposed  •;"  but  when,  as  mouths 
went  by,  he  seat  her  neither  letter,  paper  nor  message,  she 
began  to  think  that  possibly  he  had  never  entertained  a 
serious  thought  concerning  her,  and  when  Stephen  Grey 
came,  she  was  the  more  ready  to  receive  his  attentions,  and 
forgive  his  former  neglect.  He  was  a  reckless,  unprincipled 
fellow,  and  feeling  this  time  rather  pleased  with  the  bold 
dashing  manner  of  Eugenia,  backed  as  it  was  by  the  sup 
posed  will  of  Uncle  Nat,  he  made  some  advances,  which 
uhe  readily  met,  making  herself  and  him,  as  Mrs.  Leah  had 
laid,  "perfectly  ridiculous."  When  he  left  Dunwood  he 
went  west,  telling  her  playfully,  that,  "if  he  foand  no  one 
there  who  suited  him  better  than  she,  he  would  the  next  sum 
mer  meet  her  at  Avon,  and  perhaps  propose  1  He  was 
disgusted  with  Saratoga,  Newport,  Nahant,  and  all  thosa 


THE    SPRINGS.  168 

stupid  places,"  he  said  "  and  wished  to  try  something 
new." 

To  spend  several  weeks  at  Avon,  therefore,  was  now 
Eugenia's  object.  She  had  succeeded  in  coaxing  her  mother 
to  withhold  from  Dora  the  thousand  dollars,  a  part  of  which 
was  safely  invested  for  their  own  benefit,  but  this  alone 
would  not  cover  all  their  expenses,  for  Mrs.  Deane,  growing 
gay  and  foolish  as  she  grew  older,  declared  her  intention  of 
going  to  Avon  also.  "  The  water  would  do  her  good,"  she 
said,  "  and  'twas  time  she  saw  a  little  of  society." 

To  this  plan  Eugenia  did  not  particularly  object,  "  for  it 
would  indicate  wealth,"  she  thought,  for  the  whole  family  to 
spend  the  summer  at  a  watering  place.  Still  it  would  cost 
a  great  deal,  and  though  Uncle  Nat's  remittance  came  at 
the  usual  time,  they  did  not  dare  to  depend  wholly  upon 
that,  lest  on  their  return  there  shoukl  be  nothing  left  with 
which  to  buy  their  bread.  In  this  emergency,  they  hit 
upon  the  expedient  of  dismissing  their  servant,  and  starv 
ing  themselves  through  the  winter  and  spring,  for  the  pur 
pose  of  making  a  display  in  the  summer  ;  and  this  last 
they  were  now  doing.  Eugenia  fluttered  like  a  butterfly, 
sometimes  in  white  satin,  sometimes  in  pink,  and  again  in 
embroidered  muslin  ;  while  her  mother,  a  very  little  dis 
gusted  with  society,  but  still  determined  to  brave  it  through, 
held  aside  her  cambric  wrapper  and  made  faces  over  thru 
glasses  of  spring  water  in  the  morning,  drowned  herself  in  a 
hot  bath  every  other  day,  rode  twice  a  day  in  crowded 
omnibuses  to  and  from  the  springs,  through  banks  of  sand 
and  clouds  of  dust,  and  sat  every  evening  in  the  heated 
parlors  with  a  very  red  face,  and  a  very  tight  dress,  won 
dering  if  everybody  enjoyed  themselves  as  little  in  society 
as  she  did,  and  thinking  ten  dollars  per  week  a  great  deaJ 
to  pay  for  being  as  uncomfortable  as  she  was  I 


164  DORA    DEANE. 

For  her  disquietude,  however,  she  felt  in  a  measura 
repaid  when  she  saw  that  Eugenia  was  the  most  showy 
young  lady  present,  and  managed  to  keep  about  her  a  cross 
eyed  widower,  a  near  sighted-bachelor,  a  medical  student 
of  nineteen,  a  broken  down  merchant,  a  lame  officer,  a 
spiritualist,  and  Stephen  Grey  1  This  completed  the  list  of 
her  admirers,  if  we  except  a  gouty  old  man,  who  praised  her 
dancing,  and  would  perhaps  have  called  her  beautiful,  but 
for  his  better  half,  who  could  see  nothing  agreeable  or 
pleasing  in  the  dashing  belle.  True  to  his  promise,  Stephen 
Grey  had  met  her  there,  and  they  were  in  the  midst  of  quite 
a  flirtation,  when  Mr.  Hastings  and  Uncle  Nat  arrived  ; 
the  latter  registering  his  name  as  Mr.  Hamilton;  and  taking 
care  soon  after  to  speak  of  Buenos  Ay  res,  as  a  place  where 
he  formerly  lived.  The  ruse  was  successful,  and  in  less  than 
half  an  hour,  it  was  known  through  the  house,  that  "  the 
singular  looking  old  gentleman  was  a  South  American,  a 
bachelor,  and  rich  undoubtedly,  as  such  men  always 
were  ! 

The  Deanes  were  that  afternoon  riding  with  Stephen 
Grey,  and  did  not  return  until  after  supper,  a  circumstance 
which  Eugenia  greatly  lamented  when  she  learned  that  their 
numbers  had  been  increased  by  the  arrival  of  an  elegant 
looking  stranger  from  New  York,  together  with  an  old 
South  American,  whose  name  was  Hamilton.  The  name  of 
the  other  Eugenia's  informant  did  not  know,  for  he  had  not 
registered  it,  but  "  he  was  a  splendid-looking  man,"  she 
said,  and  with  more  than  usual  care,  Eugenia  dressed  her* 
self  for  the  evening,  and  between  the  hours  of  eight  aud 
nine,  sailed  into  the  parlor  with  the  air  of  a  queen. 

From  his  window  in  an  upper  chamber  Uncle  Nat  had 
seen  the  ladies,  as  they  returned  from  their  ride  ;  and  when 
Mr.  Hastings,  who  at  that  time  was  absent  from  the  room, 


THE    SPRINGS.  165 

came  back  to  it,  he  found  the  old  gentleman  hnrriedly 
pacing  the  floor  and  evidently  much  excited. 

"  I've  seen  her,"  said  he,  "  the  very  one  herself — Eugenia 
Diane !  I  knew  her  mother  in  a  moment,  and  I  knew  he? 
too,  by  her  evil  eyes.  I  could  hardly  refrain  from  pouncing 
apon  her,  and  I  believe  I  did  shake  my  fist  at  her  !  But 
it's  over  now,"  he  continued,  "  and  I  am  glad  I  have  seen 
her,  for  I  can  meet  her  and  not  betray  myself ;  though, 
Hastings,  if  at  any  time  I  am  missing,  yon  may  know  that 
I've  come  up  here  to  let  myself  off,  for  my  wrath  must  evapo 
rate  somehow." 

Feeling  confident  that  he  could  trust  him,  Mr.  Hastings 
ere  long  accompanied  him  to  the  parlor,  where  his  gen 
tlemanly  manners,  and  rather  peculiar  looks  procured  for 
him  immediate  attention  ;  and  when  Eugenia  entered  the 
room,  he  was  conversing  familiarly  with  some  gentlemen 
whose  notice  she  had  in  vain  tried  to  attract.  At  a  little 
distance  from  him  and  nearer  the  door  was  Mr.  Hastings, 
talking  to  Stephen  Grey.  Eugenia  did  not  observe  him 
until  she  was  directly  at  his  side,  then,  turning  pale,  she 
uttered  an  exclamation  of  surprise,  while  he,  in  his  usual 
polite,  easy  manner,  offered  his  hand,  first  to  her  mother,  and 
then  to  herself  and  Alice,  saying,  in  reply  to  their  many 
Inquiries  as  to  when  he  returned,  that  he  reached  Dunwood 
a  few  days  before,  and  finding  they  were  all  at  Avon,  had 
concluded  to  follow.  At  this  remark  the  pallor  left  Eugenia's 
cheek,  and  was  succeeded  by  a  bright  glow,  for  "  Mr.  Hastings 
must  feel  interested  in  her,  or  he  would  not  have  followed  her 
there  ;"  and  the  black  eyes,  which  a  few  hours  before  had 
smiled  so  bewitchingly  upon  Stephen  Grey,  now  shone  with  a 
brighter  lustre,  as  she  talked  with  Mr.  Hustings  of  his  Euro 
pean  tour,  asking  him  why  he  had  staid  so  long,  and  telling 
him  how  natural  it  seemed  to  have  him  home  once  more. 


166  DORA    DEANE. 

"  By  the  way,"  she  continued,  "  they  say  thtre  is  an  old 
South  American  here — a  queer  old  fellow — did  he  com* 
with  you  ?" 

"  Yes,"  answered  Mr.  Hastings,  glancing  towards  Uncle 
^at,  whose  eyes  had  never  for  a  moment  lost  sight  of 
Eugenia  ;  "  I  found  him  in  my  travels,  and  liking  him  very 
much,  brought  him  home  with  me.  Allow  me  to  introduce 
you,  for  though  rather  eccentric,  he's  a  fine  man,  and  quite 
wealthy,  too." 

"  Wealth  is  nothing !  I  wouldn't  think  any  more  of  him 
for  that,"  returned  Eugenia,  taking  Mr.  Hastings's  arm,  and 
advancing  toward  Uncle  Nat,  whose  left  hand  grasped 
tightly  one  side  of  his  blue  coat,  while  the  other  was  offered 
to  Eugenia. 

With  a  slight  shudder,  he  dropped  her  hand  as  soon  as  it 
was  touched  ;  then,  pressing  his  fingers  together  so  firmly, 
that  his  long  nails  left  marks  in  his  flesh,  he  looked  curiously 
down  upon  her,  eyeing  her  furtively  as  if  she  had  been  a  wild 
beast.  Nothing  of  all  this  escaped  Eugenia,  who,  feeling 
greatly  amused  at  what  she  thought  to  be  his  embarrass 
ment,  and  fancying  he  had  never  before  conversed  with  so 
fine  a  lady  as  herself,  she  commenced  quizzing  him  in  a 
manner  excessively  provoking  to  one  of  his  excitable  tem 
perament.  Lifting  up  first  one  foot,  and  then  the  other,  he 
felt  his  patience  fast  giving  way,  and  at  last,  as  her  ridicule 
became  more  and  more  marked,  he  could  endure  it  no  longer, 
but  returned  it  with  a  kind  of  sarcasm  far  more  scathing  than 
anything  she  could  say.  Deeply  chagrined,  and  feeling  that 
she  had  been  beaten  with  her  own  weapons,  she  was  aboul 
to  leave  the  "  old  bear,"  as  she  mentally  styled  him,  when 
remembering  that  he  was  Mr.  Hastings's  friend,  and,  as  such, 
worthy  of  more  respect  than  she  had  paid  him,  she  said  play 
fully,  "  I  have  a  mother  and  sister  here,  whom  you  maj 


THE    SPRINGS.  1« 

like  better  than  you  do  me.  I'll  introduce  them,"  and 
tripping  across  the  room,  she  made  known  her  wishes  to  her 
mother,  adding  that  "  there  was  a  chance  for  her,  as  he 
was  an  old  bachelor."  * 

Long  and  scarehingly  the  old  man  looked  in  the  face  of 
the  widow,  thinking  of  the  time  when  she  had  called  Fannit 
her  sister  ;  but  of  this  Mrs.  Deane  did  not  know  ;  and  re 
membering  what  Eugenia  had  said,  she  blushed  crimson, 
and  as  soon  as  possible,  stole  away,  leaving  him  alone  with 
Alice,  with  whom  he  was  better  pleased,  talking  with  her  so 
long  that  Eugenia,  who  was  hovering  near  Mr.  Hastings, 
began  to  laugh  at  what  she  called  her  sister's  conquest. 
Nothing  had  escaped  Mr.  Hastings,  and  thinking  this  a  good 
opportunity  for  rebuking  the  young  lady,  he  spoke  of  Mr. 
Hamilton  in  the  highest  terms,  saying  that  "  he  should  con 
sider  any  disrespect  paid  to  his  friend  a  slight  to  himself." 
This  hint  was  sufficient,  and  wishing  to  make  amends  for 
her  rudeness,  Eugenia  ere  long  sought  the  stranger,  and 
tried  to  be  very  agreeable  ;  but  there  was  no  affinity  be 
tween  them,  and  to  Mr.  Hastings,  who  was  watching  them, 
they  seemed  much  like  a  fierce  mastiff,  and  a  spiteful  cat, 
impatient  to  pounce  upon  each  other  ! 

During  the  evening  the  three  were  standing  together,  and 
Eugenia  suddenly  remembering  Dora,  asked  Mr.  Hastings 
how  she  was,  saying  she  seldom  wrote  to  them,  and  when 
she  did,  her  letters  amounted  to  nothing.  With  a  warn 
ing  glance  at  Uncle  Nat,  whose  face  grew  very  dark,  Mr. 
Hastings  replied  that  she  was  well,  and  had,  he  thought, 
improved  under  his  sister's  care. 

"  I  am  glad,"  said  she,  "  for  there  was  need  enough  of 
improvement.  She  was  so  unrefined,  always  preferring  the 
kitchen  to  the  parlor,  that  we  couldn't  make  anything  of 
her." 


J68  DORA    DEANE. 

A  sudden  "  Ugh !"  from  Uncle  Nat  stopped  her,  and  she 
ftsked  him  what  was  the  matter. 

"  Nothing,  nothing,"  said  he,  wiping  his  face,  "  only  I'nc 
getting  pretty  warm,  ajid  must  cool  off." 

The  next  moment  he  was  gone,  and  when,  at  a  late  hour,  \ 
Mr.  Hastings  repaired  to  his  room,  he  knew  by  the  chairs,  J 
boots,  brushes,  and  books  scattered  over  the  floor,  that^X 
Uncle  Nat,  snoring  so  loudly  in  bed,  had  cooled  off  ! 

"  I  had  to  hold  on,  to  keep  from  falling  to  pieces  right 
before  her,"  he  said,  next  morning,  in  speaking  of  the  last 
night's  adventure  ;  "  but  I  shall  do  better  next  time.  I  am 
getting  a  little  accustomed  to  it." 

And  he  was  right,  for  only  twice  during  the  entire  day  and 
evening  did  he  disappear  from  the  room.  Once  when  Eugenia 
sat  down  to  play,  and  once  when  he  heard  her  telling  Ste 
phen  Grey,  who  asked  her  to  ride  again,  that,  "  he  really  must 
excuse  her,  as  she  had  a  letter  to  write  to  Uncle  Nat,  who 
undoubtedly  wondered  why  she  was  so  tardy.  And  you 
know,"  she  said,  "  it  won't  do  to  neglect  him  1" 

Uncle  Nat  knew  it  was  a  farce  to  get  rid  of  Stephen  Grey, 
who  was  nothing  compared  with  his  brother-in-law,  but 
nis  indignation  was  not  the  less  ;  and  Mr.  Hastings,  when 
ne  saw  the  long  blue  coat  flying  up  the  stairs,  smiled 
quietly,  though  he  pitied  the  poor  old  man,  who  was  thus 
kept  vibrating  between  his  chamber  and  the  parlor. 

In  this  manner  several  days  passed  away,  during  which 
time  Uncle  Nat's  temper  was  severely  tested,  both  by  Euge 
nia's  remarks  concerning  Dora,  and  by  what  she  said  of 
himself,  for  he  more  than  once  heard  her  speaking  of  "Old 
Untie  Nat,""  who  sent  her  money  to  buy  the  various  articles 
of  jewelry  which  she  wore.  On  such  occasions  it  seemed 
almo.st  impossible  for  him  to  restrain  his  anger,  and  he  often 
wished  he  had  never  promised  to  keep  silent ;  but  by  ft*. 


THE    SPRINGS.  Nl» 

qnent  visits  to  his  chamber,  which  witnessed  many  a  terrific 
Btcrm,  he  managed  to  be  quiet,  so  that  Eugenia  had  no  sus 
picion  whatever,  though  she  disliked  him  greatly,  and  wished 
he  had  never  come  there.  Mr.  Hastings  troubled  her,  too, 
fj]  she  felt  rery  uncertain  as  to  the  nature  of  his  feelings  to- 
leaids  her.  He  treated  her  politely,  but  that  was  all,  and 
no  management  on  her  part  could  draw  from  him  any  par 
ticular  attention. 

"  Maybe  he's  jealous  of  Stephen  Grey,"  she  thought,  and 
then  she  became  so  cold  towards  the  latter  individual,  that 
iiad  he  not  remembered  Uncle  Nat's  will,  in  which  he  firmly 
believed,  he  would  have  packed  his  trunk  at  once,  and  left 
her  in  disgust. 

But  Stephen's  necessities  were  great.  There  was  stand 
ing  against  him  a  long  list  of  bills,  which  his  father  refused 
to  pay,  and  he  was  ready  to  marry  the  first  purse  which  was 
offered.  Had  Eugenia  been  altogether  agreeable  to  him,  he 
would  have  proposed  ere  this,  but  without  knowing  why,  he 
felt  afraid  of  her.  Added  to  this  was  the  memory  of  his 
mother's  threat,  that  his  father  should  disinherit  him  if  he 
disgraced  them  by  marrying  that  Deane  girl,  in  whose  ex 
pected  fortune  she  did  not  believe.  So  halting  .between 
two  opinions,  he  allowed  himself  to  be  taken  up  and  cast 
off  whenever  the  capricious  Eugenia  chose. 

In  the  meantime,  Uncle  Nat  had  cultivated  the  acquaint 
ance  of  Mrs.  Dcane  and  Alice,  finding  the  latter  quite  a 
pleasant  girl,  and  feeling  disposed  to  think  more  favorably 
of  the  former  when  he  heard  her  speak  kindly  of  Dora,  as 
she  always  did.  Matters  were  in  this  state,  when,  one 
afurnoon,  in  compliance  with  her  brother's  written  request, 
Mrs.  Elliott  arrived,  together  with  Dora.  Most  of  the  visi 
tors  were  at  the  springs,  and  as  Eugenia  never  let  an  oppor 
tunity  pass  for  showing  herself  to  the  guests  of  the  different 

8 


170  DORA    DEAXE. 

houses,  she  too  was  there,  and  thus  failed  to  see  how  ten« 
derly  Dora  was  greeted  by  Mr.  Hastings,  and  how  fondly 
Uncle  Nat  clasped  her  in  his  arms,  holding  her  hand  all  the 
way  up  the  stairs,  and  only  releasing  her  when  she  reached 
the  door  of  the  room,  which  had  been  previously  engaged 
for  them  by  Mr.  Hastings.  Feeling  slightly  indisposed, 
Mrs.  Elliott  did  not  go  down  to  supper,  and  as  Dora  chose 
to  remain  with  her,  neither  of  them  were  seen  until  evening. 
Eugenia  had  heard  of  the  arrival  of  two  aristocratic  looking 
ladies,  one  of  whom  was  young  and  very  beautiful,  and  this 
aroused  her  fears  at  once.  Hitherto  she  had  reigned  with 
out  a  rival,  for  aside  from  her  beauty,  the  generally  believed 
rumor  of  her  being  an  heiress,  procured  for  her  attention 
from  many  who  otherwise  would  have  been  disgusted  with 
her  overbearing  manner  and  boisterous  conduct  ;  for,  like 
many  others,  she  had  fallen  into  the  error  of  thinking  that 
to  be  fashionable,  she  must  be  bold  and  noisy,,  and  no  voice 
in  the  drawing-room  ever  reached  so  high  a  note  as  hers 
Still  she  was  tolerated  and  flattered,  and  when  the  friend, 
who  told  her  of  the  new  arrivals,  and  who  had  caught  a 
view  of  Dora's  face,  laughingly  bade  her  beware  lest  her 
star  should  begin  to  wane,  she  curled  her  lip  in  scorn,  a3 
if  anything  in  Avon  could  compete  with  her,  who  "  had 
spent  so  many  seasons  at  Saratoga  and  Newport,  and  who 
would  have  gone  there  this  summer,  only  she  wanted  a 
change,  and  then  it  was  more  quiet  for  ma  /" 

This  was  one  of  her  stereotyped  remarks  until  Mr.  Hast 
ings  came,  but  he  knew  her,  and  in  his  presence  she  was  less 
assuming.  She  had  heard  that  the  new  arrivals  were  his 
friends,  and  thinking  they  must  of  course  be  somebody,  she 
arrayed  herself  for  the  evening  with  unusual  care,  wearing 
her  white  satin  and  lace  bertha,  the  most  becoming  aud  at 
the  same  time  the  most  expensive  dress  she  had. 


THE    SPRINGS.  1T1 

"  I  wish  I  had  some  pearls,"  she  said,  glancing  at  hei 
raven  hair;  "they  would  look  so  much  richer  than  these 
flowers." 

"I  should  think  an  heiress  like  you  would  have  everything 
she  wanted,"  suggested  Alice,  mischievously,  and  Eugenia 
rep'ied,  "  Oh,  pshaw  !  We  shall  never  get  more  than  five 
hundred  a  year  from  Uncle  Nat,  but  I  don't  much  care. 
Old  Mr.  Grey  is  wealthy,  and  if  Mr.  Hastings  don't  mani 
fest  any  more  interest  in  me  than  he  has  since  he  came 
here,  1  shall  let  that  foolish  Steve  propose,  much  as  I  dislike 
him." 

So  saying,  she  clasped  upon  her  arm  a  heavy  bracelet, 
for  which  the  sum  of  forty  dollars  had  been  paid,  and  de 
scended  with  her  mother  and  sister  to  the  parlor.  Mrs. 
Elliott  and  Dora  were  there  before  her — the  former  leaning 
on  Mr.  Hastings's  arm,  while  the  latter  was  already  sur 
rounded  by  a  group  of  admirers,  a  few  of  whom  had  met 
her  before.  She  was  standing  with  her  back  towards  Eu 
genia,  who  singled  her  out  in  a  moment,  as  her  rival,  notic 
ing  first  her  magnificent  hair,  in  which  an  ornament  of  any 
kind  would  have  been  out  of  place,  and  which  was  confined 
at  the  back  of  the  head  by  a  small  and  elegantly  wrought 
gold  comb.  Her  dress  was  perfectly  plain,  consisting  simply 
of  white  India  muslin,  which  fitted  her  admirably  and 
seemed  well  adapted  to  her  youthful  form. 

"  Who  is  she  ?"  inquired  Eugenia  of  Uncle  Nat,  who  had 
gtationcd  himself  near  the  door,  on  purpose  to  see  how  tho 
first  sight  of  Dora  would  affect  her. 

"  Who  is  she  !"  H£  replied.  "  Strange  you  don't  know  your 
own  cousin  Dora  Deane"  aud  a  look  of  intense  satisfaction 
danced  in  his  keen  eyes,  as  he  saw  the  expression  of  aston 
ishment  which  passed  over  Eugenia's  face. 

"  Impossible  !"  she  exclaimed,  while  a  pang  of  euvy  shot 


172  DORA    DEANE. 

through  her  heart.  "That  stylish  looking  girl  can't  be 
Dora  1  Why,  I  always  supposed  Mrs.  Elliott  made  a  half 
servant,  half  companion  of  her.  She  never  told  us  any 
different ;"  and  with  a  vague  hope  that  the  old  South  Amer 
lean  might  be  mistaken,  she  took  a  step  or  two  forward, 
just  as  Dora  turned  round,  disclosing  to  view  her  face. 

There  was  no  longer  any  doubt,  and  with  mingled  feelings 
ti.  surprise,  mortification,  jealousy,  and  rage,  Eugenia  ad 
vanced  to  meet  her,  wisely  resolving  as  she  did  so  to  make 
the  best  of  it,  and  never  let  her  cousin  know  how  much  an 
noyed  she  was.  Both  Mrs.  Deane  and  Alice  were  greeted 
kindly  by  Dora,  who  could  scarcely  be  more  than  polite  to 
Eugenia,  and  when  the  latter  made  a  movement  to  kiss 
her,  she  involuntarily  drew  back,  feeling  that  she  could  not 
puffer  it. 

"  Grown  suddenly  very  proud,"  muttered  Eugenia,  at  the 
same  time  determining  that  her  mother  should  insist  upon 
taking  Dora  home  with  them,  and  secretly  exulting  as  she 
thought  how  she  should  again  work  in  the  dark  kitchen  at 
Locust  Grove,  as  she  had  done  before.  "  That'll  remove 
some  of  her  fine  airs,  I  reckon,"  she  thought,  as,  with  bitter 
hatred  at  her  heart,  she  watched  her  young  cousin,  who, 
throughout  the  entire  evening,  continued  to  be  the  centre  of 
attraction. 

Everybody  asked  who  she  was  ;  everybody  pronounced 
her  beautiful,  and  everybody  neglected  Eugenia  Deane,  who, 
greatly  enraged,  retired  early,  and  vented  her  wrath  in 
tears,  to  think  that  the  once  despised  Dora  should  now  be 
ic  far  above  her. 

But  it  shall  not  be,"  she  said,  and  then  to  her  mother 
she  unfolded  her  plan  of  having  Dora  go  home  with  them 
immediately.  "  Pd  as  soon  be  in  Joppa  as  to  stay  here  with 
her  for  a  rival,"  she  said.  "  Mr.  Hastings  don't  care  for  me, 


THE    SPRINGS.  17S 

I  know,  and  I  hate  that  old  codger  of  a  Hamilton,  with  hia 
sarcastic  remarks  and  prying  eyes.  I've  been  here  long 
enough,  and  I  mean  to  go  home." 

To  this  proposition  Mrs.  Deane  assented  willingly  ;  bu» 
she  expressed  her  doubts  concerning  her  ability  to  makt 
Dora  accompany  them. 

"  Of  course  she'll  go,"  said  Eugenia.  "  Her  mother 
placed  her  under  your  control,  and  she  is  bound  to  obey." 

Yielding  at  last,  as  she  generally  did,  Mrs.  Deane  pro 
mised  to  see  what  she  could  do,  and  the  next  day  she 
announced  to  Mrs.  Elliott  her  intention  of  taking  Dora 
home  with  her.  "  I  am  grateful  for  all  you  have  done  for 
her,"  said  she  ;  "  but  we  need  her,  and  cannot  spare  her 
any  longer,  so,  Dora  dear,"  turning  to  her  niece,  "  pack  up 
your  things,  and  we  will  start  to-morrow  morning." 

Had  Uncle  Nat  been  there,  he  would,  undoubtedly,  have 
exploded  at  once  ;  but  he  was  not  present,  neither  was  Mr. 
Hastings,  and  it  remained  for  Mrs.  Elliott  alone  to  reply, 
which  she  did  firmly  and  decidedly.  "  No,  Mrs.  Deane, 
Dora  cannot  go.  She  was  committed  to  your  care,  I  know, 
but  you  gave  her  up  to  me,  and  I  shall  not  part  with  her 
unless  I  am  legally  compelled  to  do  so,  or  she  wishes  to  go. 
She  can  answer  this  last  for  herself,"  and  she  turned  towards 
Dora,  who,  drawing  nearer  to  her,  replied,  "  I  am  sorry  if 
disobey  you,  Aunt  Sarah,  but  I  cannot  leave  Mrs.  Elliott." 

Mrs.  Deane  was  not  very  courageous,  and  unwilling  to 
press  her  claim,  she  turned  away  and  reported  her  ill-suecesr 
to  Eugenia,  who  heaped  a  torrent  of  abuse  upon  both  Mis 
Elliott,  Dora,  the  old  South  American,  and  Mr.  Hastinga 
who,  she  declared,  were  all  leagued  against  them. 

"  But  I  don't  care,"  said  she,  "  old  Mr.  Grey  is  quite  as 
wealthy  as  Mr.  Hastings,  and  by  saying  the  word,  I  can 
marry  Steve  at  any  time  ;  and  I  will  do  it,  too,"  she  con 


174  DORA    DEANB. 

dnued,  "  and  that  proud  Mrs.  Elliott  shall  yet  be  obliged  to 
meet  me  on  terms  of  equality,  for  she  will  not  dare  to 
neglect  tfie  Greys!" 

Somewhat  comforted  by  this  thought,  she  dried  her  tears, 
»nd  signified  her  willingness  to  start  for  home  on  the 
morrow,  even  if  Dora  did  not  accompany  her.  As  yet,  she 
had  no  suspicion  whatever  of  the  engagement  existing 
between  Mr.  Hastings  and  her  cousin.  There  was  nothing 
in  the  manner  of  either  to  betray  it,  and  when,  next  morn 
ing,  attired  in  her  travelling  dress,  she  stood  with  them  upon 
the  piazza,  she  little  thought  how  and  where  she  would  next 
meet  them.  At  her  side  was  Stephen  Grey.  ]Je  had  been 
won  over  by  her  gracious  smiles  the  night  previous,  and 
was  now  goin£  with  her  as  far  as  Rochester,  where,  if  a 
favorable  opportunity  were  presented,  he  intended  offering 
himself  for  her  acceptance.  Uncle  Nat  was  not  present, 
and  Eugenia  was  glad  that  it  was  so,  for  there  was  some 
thing  about  him  exceedingly  annoying  to  her,  and  she  always 
felt  relieved  at  his  absence. 

"  Why  do  you  go  so  soon  ?  I  thought  you  were  intending 
to  spend  the  summer,"  said  one  of  her  old  admirers  ;  and  with 
a  scornful  toss  of  her  head,  she  replied,  "  It  is  getting  so 
insufferably  dull  here,  that  I  can't  endure  it  any  longer." 

Just  then  the  omnibus  was  announced,  and  with  a  hurried 
good  bye,  she  followed  her  baggage  down  the  stairs,  and 
amid  a  cloud  of  dust  was  driven  rapidly  away,  while  Uncle 
Nat,  from  his  chamber  window,  sent  after  her  a  not  very 
complimentary  or  affectionate  adieu.  Arrived  at  the  hotel 
in  Rochester,  where  Eugenia  had  once  waited  in  vain  for 
Mr.  Hastings,  Stephen  Grey  managed  to  hear  from  her  again, 
that  she  had  well-founded  hopes  of  being  one  of  the  heirs  of 
Nathaniel  Deane,  who,  she  said,  sent  them  annually  a  sum 
of  money  varying  from  five  to  fifteen  hundred  dollars 


TEK    SPRINGS.  171 

This  was  quite  a  consideration  for  one  whose  finances  tvere 
low,  and  whose  father,  while  threatening  to  disinherit  him, 
was  himself  on  the  verge  of  bankruptcy,  and  thinking  the 
annual  remittances  worth  securing,  even  if  the  will  should 
fail,  Stephen  found  an  opportunity  to  go  down  on  his  knees 
before  her  after  the  most  approved  fashion,  telling  her  that 
"  she  alone  could  make  him  happy,  and  that  without  her  he 
should  be  wretched  ;"  and  she,  knowing  just  how  much  in 
earnest  he  was,  promised  to  be  his  wife,  intending  the  while 
to  break  that  promise  if  she  saw  in  Mr.  Hastings  any  signs 
of  renewed  interest.  So,  when  Stephen  pressed  her  to  uamo 
an  early  day,  she  put  him  off,  telling  him  she  could  not  think 
of  being  married  until  near  the  middle  of  autumn,  and  at  the 
same  time  requesting  him  to  keep  their  engagement  a  secret, 
for  she  did  not  wish  it  to  be  a  subject  of  remark,  as  engaged 
people  always  were.  To  this,  Stephen  consented  willingly,  aa 
he  would  thus  escape,  for  a  time,  his  mother's  auger.  And  so 
when,  tired,  jaded,  cross  and  dusty,  Eugenia  Deane  reached 
Locust  Grove,  she  had  the  satisfaction  of  knowing  that  her 
trip  to  the  Springs  had  been  successful,  inasmuch  as  it  pro« 
cured  for  her  "  a  husband,  such,  as  ht  was." 


CHAPTER   XXI. 

THE    DOUBLE     SURPRISE. 

THE  Dcancs  bad  been  home  about  two  weeks  when  Mr. 
Hastings  returned  to  Rose  Hill,  accompanied  by  the  "  Old 
yfouth  American,"  who  seemed  to  have  taken  up  his  abode 
there.  Being  naturally  rather  reserved,  the  latter  visited 
'™t  iittle  in  the  village,  while  at  Locust  Grove  he  never 
v-qV'j'ij  and  seldom  saw  Eugenia  when  he  met  her  in  the 

'  ',.  Mr.  Hastings,  too,  was  unusually  cool  in  his  man- 
tier  towards  her,  and  this  she  imputed  wholly  to  the  fact  of 
her  having  been  rude  to  his  friend  on  the  night  of  her 
introduction.  "  He  was  never  so  before  "  she  thought,  and 
she  redoubled  her  efforts  to  be  agreeable,  to  no  effect,  as  he 
was  simply  polite  to  her  and  nothing  more.  So  after  a 
series  of  tears  and  headaches,  she  gave  him  up,  comforting 
herself  with  the  belief  that  he  would  never  marry  anybody. 
After  this,  she  smiled  more  graciously  upon  Stephen  Grey, 
who,  pretending  to  be  a  lawyer,  had,  greatly  to  her  annoyance, 
hung  out  his  sign  in  Dunwood,  where  his  office  proper  seemed 
to  be  in  the  bar-room,  or  drinking-saloon,  as  in  one  of  these 
ho  was  always  to  be  found,  when  not  at  Locust  Grove. 

One  evening,  towards  the  last  of  September,  when  he 
flame  as  usual  to  see  her,  he  startled  her  with  the  news,  that 
there  was  ere  long  to  be  a  new  bride  at  Rose  Hill  !  Start 
ing  involuntarily,  Eugenia  exclaimed,  "  A  new  bride  1  It 
can't  be  possible  1  Who  is  it  ?" 


THE    DOUBLE    SURPRISE.  171 

It  was  months  since  Stephen  had  been  in  New  York,  and 
he  knew  nothing,  except  that  the  lady  was  from  the  city, 
and  he  mentioned  a  Miss  Morton,  with  whom  he  had  several 
times  seen  Mr.  Hastings  walking,  and  who  was  very  inti 
mate  with  Mrs.  Ellioit.  At  first  Eugenia  refused  to  believe 
it,  but  when  she  had  rememberecWiow  extensive^  Mr.  Hastings 
was  repairing  his  place,  and  heard  that  the  house  was  being 
entirely  refurnished,  and  fitted  up  in  a  princely  style,  she 
wept  again  over  her  ruined  hopes,  and  experienced  many  a 
sharp  pang  of  envy,  when  from  time  to  time  she  saw  go  by 
loads  of  elegant  furniture,  and  knew  that  it.  was  not  for  her 
self,  but  another.  The  old  South  American,  too,  it  waa 
said,  was  very  lavish  of  his  money,  purchasing  many  costly 
ornaments,  and  furnishing  entirely  the  chamber  of  the  bride. 
For  this  the  fair  Eugenia  styled  him  "  a  silly  old  fool,"  won 
dering  "  what  business  it  was  to  him,"  and  "  why  he  need 
be  so  much  interested  in  one  who,  if  she  had  any  sense, 
would,  in  less  than  two  weeks,  turn  him  from  the  house, 
with  his  heathenish  ways."  Still,  fret  as  ^he  would,  she 
could  not  in  the  least  retard  the  progress  cf  matters,  an<? 
one  morning  towards  the  last  of  October,  she  heard  from 
Mrs.  Leah,  whom  she  met  at  a  store  in  the  village,  that  the 
weddiug  was  to  take  place  at  the  house  of  the  bride  on 
Tuesday  of  the  next  week,  and  that  on  Thursday  evening  fol 
lowing,  there  was  to  be  a  grand  party  at  Rose  Hill,  far  ex 
ceeding  in  splendor  and  elegance  the  one  given  there  some 
years  before. 

"  Crowds  of  folks,"  she  said,  "  are  coming  from  the  city 
n  ith  the  bridal  pair,  who  would  start  on  \\  ednesday,  stay 
in  Syracuse  all  right,  and  reach  Dunwood  about  thieo 
o'clock  on  Thursday  afternoon.  The  invitations  for  thi 
village  people,"  she  added,  "  were  already  witten  and  were 
left  with  her  to  distribute  on  Wednesday  morning." 

8* 


178  DORA    DEANE. 

Eugenia  would  have  given  much  to  know  if  she  were  in 
vited,  but  she  was  too  proud  to  ask,  and  assuming  an  air  of 
indifference  she  casually  inquired  the  name  of  the  bride. 

With  the  manner  of  one  in  a  deep  study,  Mrs.  Leah  re 
plied,  "  Let  me  see  I  It's  a  very  common  name.  Strange  I 
don't  speak  it  1"  • 

"  Morton  ?"  suggested  Eugenia,  but  Mrs.  Leah  affected 
not  to  hear  her,  and,  having  completed  her  purchases;  she 
left  the  store  and  walked  slowly  homeward,  dropping  more 
than  one  tear  on  the  brown  paper  parcel  she  held  in  her 
hand. 

Crying,  however,  was  of  no  avail,  and  mentally  chiding 
herself  for  her  weakness,  she  resolved  to  brave  it  through, 
comforting  herself  again  with  the  thought  that  t/ie  Greys  were 
as  aristocratic  as  the  Hastings's,  and  as  Stephen's  wife  she 
should  yet  shine  in  the  best  society,  for  in  case  she  married 
him  she  was  resolved  that  he  should  take  her  at  once  to 
Philadelphia,  where  she  would  compel  his  proud  mother  to 
notice  her.  This  helped  to  divert  her  mind,  and  in  the 
course  of  the  day  she  was  talking  gaily  of  the  party,  and 
wondering  if  she  should  be  as  intimate  with  the  second  Mrs. 
Hastings  as  she  had  been  with  the  first  ! 

That  night,  Alice  went  down  to  the  post-office,  from 
which  she  soon  returned,  evideutally  much  excited  ;  and 
rushing  into  the  room  where  her  mother  and  sister  were 
sitting,  she  said,  as  she  threw  a  letter  into  the  lap  of  the 
latter,  "  It's  from  Uncle  Nat,  and  postmarked  New  York." 

Turning  whiter  than  ever  she  was  before,  Eugenia  could 
scarcely  command  herself  to  break  the  seal,  and  read  the 
few  brief  lines  which  told  her  that  Uncle  Nat  had,  at  last, 
concluded  to  come  home,  that  a  matter  of  some  importance 
would  keep  him  from  Locust  Grove  for  a  few  days  ;  but  if 
nothing  occurred,  he  would  be  with  them  Dn  Saturday 


THE    DOUBLE    SURPRISE.  171 

ing  of  next  week  1  In  the  postscript,  he  added,  that  "  he 
should  expect  to  find  Dora  with  them,  and  he  hoped  her 
going  away  to  school  had  been  a  benefit  to  her." 

So  great  was  their  consternation  that  for  some  minutea 
neither  of  them  uttered  a  word,  but  each  waited  for  the 
other  to  suggest  some  way  of  acting  in  the  present  emer 
gency.  As  Eugenia's  mind  was  the  most  active  of  the  threo 
she  was  the  first  to  speak.  After  venting  her  indignation 
upon  Uncle  Nat,  for  intruding  himself  where  he  was  not 
wanted,  she  continued  :  "  We  are  in  a  sad  dilemma,  but  wo 
must  make  the  best  of  it,  and  inasmuch  as  he  is  coming,  I 
am  glad  that  Dora  is  what  she  is.  We  can  tell  him  how 
rapidly  she  has  improved,  and  how  rejoiced  we  are  that  it 
is  so.  I  am  glad  I  have  said  nothing  about  her  for  the  last 
two  years,  except  that  she  was  away  at  school.  I'll  write 
to  her  to-night,  and  tell  her  to  meet  him  here,  and  come  im 
mediately.  You  know,  she  is  good-natured,  and  on  my 
bended  knees  I'll  confess  what  I  have  done,  and  beg  of  her 
not  to  betray  me  to  him,  or  let  him  know  that  we  did  not 
pay  for  her  education,  and  if  she  refuses,  you,  mother,  must 
go  down  on  your  knees,  too,  and  we'll  get  up  between  us 
such  a  scene  that  she  will  consent,  I  know — if  not,  why,  wo 
must  abide  the  consequence  " — and  with  the  look  of  one 
about  to  be  martyred,  Eugenia  sat  down  and  wrote  to  Dora, 
beseeching  her  to  "  come  without  delay,  as  there  was  some 
thing  they  must  tell  her  before  meeting  Uncle  Nat  !" 

This  was  Friday  night,  and  very  impatiently  she  awaited 
an  answer,  which,  though  written  on  Monday,  did  not  come 
until  the  Wednesday  following. 

"  What  does  she  say  ?"  cried  Mrs.  Deane  and  Alice, 
crowding  around  her,  while  with  a  rueful  face  she  read  that 
Dora  would  be  delighted  to  meet  Uncle  Nat  at  Locust  Grove, 
but  could  not  come  quite  so  soon  as  they  wished  to  have  her. 


180  DORA    DEANE. 

"  You  have  undoubtedly  heard,"  she  wrote,  "  of  Mr.  Hast> 
ings's  approaching  marriage,  at  which  I  wish  to  be  present. 
Mrs.  Elliott  will  accompany  the  bridal  party  to  Rose  Hill  on 
Thursday,  and  she  thinks  I  had  better  wait  and  come  with 
her.  I  shall  probably  see  you  at  the  party. 

"  Yours  in  haste, 

"  DORA  DEANE." 

On  Eugenia's  iniiid  there  was  not  a  shadow  of  suspicion 
that  Dora  Deane,  appended  to  that  letter,  had  ere  this 
ceased  to  be  her  cousin's  name — that  Mr.  Hastings,  who, 
together  with  Uncle  Nat,  had  the  Saturday  previous  gone 
down  to  New  York,  had  bent  fondly  over  her  as  she  wrote 
it  for  the  last  time,  playfully  suggesting  that  she  add  to  it 
an  H,  by  way  of  making  a  commencement,  nor  yet  that 
Uncle  Nat,  with  an  immense  degree  of  satisfaction  in  his 
face,  had  read  the  short  note,  saying  as  he  did  so,  "  We'll 
cheat  'em,  darling,  won't  we  ?" 

Neither  did  she  dream  that  last  night's  moon  shone  down 
on  Dora  Deane,  a  beautiful,  blushing  bride,  who,  with 
orange  blossoms  in  her  shining  hair,  and  the  deep  love-light 
in  her  eye,  stood  by  Mr.  Hastings's  side  and  called  him  her 
husband.  Nothing  of  all  this  she  knew,  and  hastily  read 
ing  the  letter,  she  exclaimed,  "  Plague  on  her  !  a  vast  deal 
of  difference  her  being  at  the  wedding  would  make.  But  no 
matter,  the  old  codger  will  not  be  here  until  Saturday  night 
and  there'll  be  time  enough  to  coax  her." 

Just  then  the  cards  of  invitation  were  left  at  the  door, 
and  in  the  delightful  certainty  of  knowing  that  she  was 
really  invited,  she  forgot  in  a  measure  everything  clso  In 
the  evening  she  was  annoyed  as  usual  with  a  call  from 
Stephen  Grey.  He  had  that  day  received  news  from  home 
that  his  father's  failure  could  not  long  be  deferred,  and 


THE    DOUBLE    SURPRISE.  18! 

judging  Eugenia  by  himself,  he  fancied  she  would  sooner 
marry  liiiu  now,  than  after  he  was  the  sou  of  a  bankrupt 
Accordingly  ho  urged  her  to  consent  to  a  private  marriage 
at  her  mother's  on  Friday  evening,  the  night  following  the 
party. 

"  There  was  nothing  to  be  gained  by  waiting,"  he  said  — * 
an  opinion  in  which  Eugenia  herself  concurred,  for  she  fearsd 
3cst  in  some  way  her  treachery  should  be  betrayed,  and  she 
should  lose  Stephen  Grey,  as  well  as  Mr.  Hastings. 

Still  she  could  hardly  brina*  herself  to  consent  until  she 
had  seen  Dora,  and  she  replied  that  she  would  think  of  it, 
and  answer  him  at  the  party.  Thursday  morning  came, 
and  passed,  and  about  half-past  two,  Eugenia  saw  Mr. 
Hastings's  carriage  pass  on  its  way  to  the  depot,  together 
with  two  more,  which  had  been  hired  to  convey  the  guests 
to  Rose  Hilt.  Seating  herself  by  her  chamber  window,  she 
waited  impatiently  for  the  cars,  which  came  at  last,  and  in 
a  few  moments  the  roll  of  wheels  announced  the  approach 
of  the  bridal  party.  Very  eagerly  Eugenia,  Alice,  and  their 
mother  gazed  out  through  the  half  closed  shutters  upon  the 
carriage  in  front,  which  they  knew  was  Mr.  Hastings's. 

"  There's  Mrs.  Elliott  looking  this  way.  Don't  let  her  see 
us,"  whispered  Alice,  while  her  mother  singled  out  old  Mrs. 
Hastings  for  Dora,  wondering  >vhy  she  didn't  turn  that  way. 

But  Eugenia  had  no  eye  fOJT  any  one,  save  the  figure 
seated  next  to  Mr.  Hastings,  and  so  closely  veiled  as  entirely 
to  hide  her  features. 

"  I  wouldn't  keep  that  old  brown  thing  on  my  face,  nnlesa 
H  was  so  homely  1  was  afraid  of  having  it  seen,"  she  said  ? 
Btd  hoping  the  bride  of  Howard  Hastings  might  prove  to  bo 
exceedingly  ugly,  she  repaired  to  Dora's  room,  and  from  the 
same  window  where  Dora. once  had  watched  the  many  lights 
which  shone  from  Rose  Hill,  she  uow  watched  the  traveller* 


182  DORA    DEANE. 

uutil  they  disappeared  within  the  house.  Then,  rejoining  hei 
mother  and  sister  she  said,  "  I  don't  see  why  Dora  cau'l 
come  over  here  a  little  while  before  the  party.  There's 
plenty  of  time  and  I  do  want  to  have  it  off  nay  mind.  Be 
sides  that,  I  might  coax  her  to  assist  me  in  dressing,  for  she 
has  good  taste,  if  nothing  more  ;  I  mean  to  write  her  a  few 
lines  asking  her  to  come. 

The  note  was  accordingly  written,  and  dispatched  by  the 
Irish  girl,  who  soon  returned,  bearing  another  tiny  note, 
which  read  as  follows  : 

"  I  cannot  possibly  come,  as  I  have  promised  to  be  pre 
sent  at  tiie  dressing  of  the  bride.  DORA.-" 

Forgetting  her  recent  remark,  Eugenia  muttered  some 
thing  about  "  folks  thinking  a  great  deal  of  her  taste,"  then 
turning  to  the  servant  girl,  she  asked  "  how  Dora  looked, 
and  what  she  said  ?" 

"  Sure,  I  didn't  see  her,"  returned  the  girl  ;  "  Mistress 
Leah  carried  your  letter  to  her,  and  brought  hers  to  me. 
Not  a  ha'p'orth  of  anybody  else  did  I  see."  And  this  was  all 
the  information  which  Eugenia  could  elicit  concerning  the 
people  of  Rose  Hill. 

The  time  for  making  their  toilet  came  at  last,  and  while 
Eugenia  was  missing  the  little  cropped  head  girl,  who,  on 
a  similar  occasion,  had  obeyed  so  meekly  her  commands,  a 
fair  young  bride  was  thinking  also  of  that  night,  when  she 
bad  lain  upon  her  mother's  old  green  trunk,  and  wept  her 
self  t )  sleep.  Wishing  to  be  fashionable,  Eugenia  and  her 
party  were  the  last  to  arrive.  They  found  the  parlors 
crowded,  and  the  dressing-room  vacant,  so  that  neither  of 
them  received  the  slightest  intimation  of  the  surprise  which 
awaited  them.  la  removing  her  veil,  Eugenia  displaced  <„•:;« 


TI1E    DOUBLE    SURFRISE.  181 

«x  the  flowers  in  her  hair,  and  muttering  about  Alice's  awk 
wardness,  she  wished  she  could  see  Dora  just  a  minute,  and 
have  her  arrange  the  flowers  ! 

But  Dora  was  busy  elsewhere,  and  pronouncing  herself 
ready,  Eugenia  took  the  arm  of  Stephen  Grey,  and  followed 
her  mother  and  sister  down  stairs.  At  a  little  distance  from 
the  door  was  Mr.  Hastings,  and  at  his  side  was  Dora,  wou< 
drously  beautiful  in  her  costly  bridal  robes.  She  had  grace 
fully  received  the  congratulations  of  her  Dunwood  friends, 
who,  while  expressing  their  surprise,  had  also  expressed  their 
delight  at  finding  in  the  new  mistress  of  Rose  Hill,  the  girl 
who  had  ever  been  a  favorite  in  the  village.  Near  her  wag 
Uncle  Nat,  his  face  wearing  an  expression  of  perfect  happi 
ness  and  his  eye  almost  constantly  upon  the  door,  through 
which  Eugenia  must  pass.  There  was  a  rustle  of  silk  upon 
the  stairs,  and  drawing  nearer  to  Dora,  he  awaited  the 
result  with  breathless  interest. 

Mrs.  Deane  came  first,  but  scarcely  had  she  crossed  the 
threshold,  ere  she  started  back,  petrified  with  astonishment, 
and  clutching  Alice's  dress,  whispered  softly,  "  am  I  deceived, 
or  is  if.  Dora  1" 

And  Alice,  with  wild  staring  eyes,  could  only  answer 
"  Dora  ;"  while  Eugenia,  wondering  at  their  conduct,  strove 
to  push  them  aside.  Failing  in  this,  she  raised  herself  on 
tiptoe,  and  looking  over  their  heads,  saw  what  for  an 
instant  chilled  her  blood,  and  stopped  the  pulsations  of  her 
heart.  It  was  the  bride,  and  fiercely  grasping  the  arm  of 
Stephen  Grey  to  keep  herself  from  falling,  she  said,  in  a 
hoarse,  unnatural  voice,  "  Great  Heaven — it  is  Dora  I 
DORA  DEANK  1" 

Fruitful  as  she  had  hitherto  been  in  expedients,  she  was 
now  utterly  powerless  to  act,  and  knowing  that  in  her 
present  state  of  excitement,  she  could  not  meet  her  cousin, 


1S4  DORA    DEANE. 

she  turned  back  aud  fleeing  up  the  stairs,  threw  herself  upon 
a  chair  in  the  dressing-room,  where,  with  her  hands  clasped 
firmly  together,  she  sat  rigid  as  marble  until  the  storm  of 
passion  had  somewhat  abated. 

"And  she  has  won  him — Dora  Deane,  whom  I  have  so  ill- 
treated,"  she  said  at  last,  starting  at  the  sound  of  her 
voice,  it  was  so  hollow  and  strange.  Then,  as  she  remem 
bered  the  coming  of  Uncle  Nat  and  the  exposure  she  so 
much  dreaded,  she  buried  her  face  in  her  hands,  and  in  the 
bitterness  of  her  humiliation  cried  out,  "  It  is  more  than  1 
can  bear  1" 

Growing  ere  long  more  calm,  she  thought  the  matter  over 
carefully,  and  decided  at  last  to  brave  it  through — to  greet 
the  bride  as  if  nothing  had  occurred,  and  never  to  let  Mr. 
Hastings  know  how  sharp  a  wound  he  had  inflicted.  "  It 
is  useless  now,"  she  thought,  "  to  throw  myself  upon  the 
mercy  of  Dora.  She  would  not,  of  course,  withhold  my 
secret  from  her  husband,  and  I  cannot  be  despised  by  him. 
I  have  loved  him  too  well  for  that.  And  perhaps  he'll 
never  know  it,"  she  continued,  beginning  to  look  upon  the 
brighter  side.  "  Uncle  Nat  may  not  prove  very  inquisi 
tive — may  not  stay  with  us  long  ;  or,  if  he  does,  as  the  wife 
of  Stephen  Grey,  I  can  bear  his  displeasure  better,"  and 
determining  that  ere  another  twenty-four  hours  were  g'-me, 
she  would  cease  to  be  Eugenia  Deane,  she  arose  and  sf^)d 
before  the  mirror,  preparatory  to  going  down. 

The  sight  of  her  white,  haggard  face  startled  her,  a.id 
for  a  moment  she  felt  that  she  could  not  mingle  with  the 
gay  throng  below,  who  would  wonder  at  her  appearance. 
But  the  ordeal  must  be  passed,  and  summoning  all  her  cour 
age,  she  descended  to  her  parlor,  just  as  her  mother  and 
Alice,  alarmed  at  her  very  long  absence,  were  coming  in 
truest  of  her.  Crossing  the  room  mechanically  she  offered 


THE    DOUBLE    SURPRISE.  IHI 

her  hand  to  Dora,  saying,  while  a  sickly  smile  played 
around  her  bloodless  lips,  "  You  have  really  taken  us  by  sur 
prise,  but  T  congratulate  you  ;  and  you  too,"  bowing  rathe! 
Btiffly  to  Mr.  Hastings,  who  returned  her  greeting  se 
phasantly,  that  she  began  to  feel  more  at  ease,  and  after  a 
little,  was  chatting  familiarly  with  Dora,  telling  her  she 
must  be  sure  and  meet,  "  Uncle  Nat,"  on  Saturday  evening, 
and  adding  in  a  low  tone,  "  If  I've  ever  treated  you  badly, 
I  hope  you  won't  tell  him." 

"I  shall  tell  him  nothing,"  answered  Dora,  and  comforted 
with  this  answer,  Eugenia  moved  away. 

"  You  are  looking  very  pale  and  bad  to-night.  What  ig 
the  matter  ?"  said  Uncle  Nat,  when  once  he  was  standing 
near  her. 

"  Nothing  but  a  bad  headache,"  she  replied,  while  her 
black  eyes  flashed  angrily  upon  him,  for  she  fancied  he  saw 
the  painful  throbbings  of  her  heart,  and  wished  to  taant  her 
with  it. 

Supper  being  over,  Stephen  Grey  led  her  into  a  little  side 
room,  where  he  claiined  the  answer  to  his  question.  It 
was  in  the  affirmative,  and  soon  after,  complaining  of  the 
intense  pain  in  her  head,  she  begged  to  go  home.  Alone  in 
her  room,  with  no  one  present  but  her  mother  and  Alice, 
her  pent-up  feelings  gave  away,  and  throwing  herself  upon 
the  floor  she  wished  that  she  had  died  ere  she  had  come  to 
this  humiliation. 

"  That  Dora,  a  beggar  as-  it  were,  should  be  preferred  to 
me  is  nothing,"  she  cried,  "  compared  to  the  way  which  the 
whole  thing  was  planned.  That  old  wretch  of  a  Hamilton 
had  something  to  do  with  it,  I  know.  How  I  hate  him, 
with  his  sneering  face  1" 

Becoming  at  length  a  little  more  composed,  she  told  her 
mother  of  her  expected  marriage  with  Stephen  Grey. 

"But  why  so  much  haste  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Deane,  who,  a 


t8«  DORA    DEANE.     . 

little  proud  of  the  alliance,  would  rather  have  given  a 
/arge  wedding. 

Sitting  upright  upon  the  floor,  with  her  long  loose  hah 
falling  around  her  white  face,  Eugenia  answered  bitterly  ; 
*'•  Stephen  Grey  has  no  more  love  for  me  than  I  have  fof 
him.  He  believes  that  we  are  rich,  or  we  will  be  when  Un 
cle  Nat  is  dead.  For  money  he  marries  me,  for  money  I 
marry  him.  I  know  old  Grey  is  wealthy,  and  as  the  wife 
of  his  son,  I  will  yet  ride  over  Dora's  head.  But  I  must  bo 
quick,  or  I  lose  him,  for  if  after  Uncle  Nat's  arrival  oar  real 
situation  should  chance  to  be  disclosed,  Steve  would  not 
hesitate  to  leave  me. 

'  So  to-morrow  or  never  a  bride  I  shall  be,'  " 

she  sang  with  a  gaiety  of  manner  wholly  at  variance  with  the 
worn,  suffering  expression  of  her  countenance.  Eugenia  was 
terribly  expiating  her  sins,  and  when  the  next  night,  in  the 
presence  of  a  few  friends,  she  stood  by  Stephen  Grey,  and 
was  made  his  wife,  she  felt  that  her  own  hands  had  poured  the 
last  drop  in  the  brimming  bucket,  for;  as  she  had  said,  there 
was  not  in  her  heart  a  particle  of  esteem  or  love  for  him  who 
was  now  her  husband. 

"  It's  my  destiny,"  she  thought  ;  "  I'll  make  the  best  of 
it,"  and  her  unnatural  laugh  rang  out  loud  and  clear,  as 
she  tried  to  appear  gay  and  happy. 

Striking  contrast  between  the  gentle  bride  at  Rose  Hill, 
who  felt  that  in  all  the  world,  there  was  not  a  happier  being 
than  herself — and  the  one  at  Locust  Grove,  who  with  blood 
shot  eyes  and  livid  lips  gazed  out  upon  the  starry  sky,  alraotit 
cursing  the  day  that  she  was  born,  and  the  fate  which  had 
made  her  what  she  was.  Ever  and  anon,  too,  there  came  steal 
ing  on  her  ear  the  fearful  word  retribution,  and  the  wretched 
girl  shuddered  as  she  thought  for  how  much  she  had  to  atono 


THE    DOUBLE    SURPRISE.  181 

Marvelling  much  at  the  strange  mood  of  his  bride, 
Stephen  Grey,  on  the  morning  succeeding  his  marriage, 
left  her  and  went  down  to  the  village,  where  he  found  a 
letter  fr.om  his  father,  telling  him  the  crisis  had  come,  leaving 
him  more  than  100,000  dollars  in  debt  I  Stephen  was  not 
surprised — he  had  expected  it,  and  it  affected  him  less  pain 
fully  when  he  considered  that  his  wife  would  inherit  a  por 
tion  of  Uncle  Nathaniel's  wealth. 

"  I  won't  tell  her  yet,"  he  thought,  as  he  walked  back  to 
Locust  Grove,  where,  with  an  undefined  presentiment  of  ap 
proaching  evil,  Eugenia  moved  listlessly  from  room  to  room, 
counting  the  hours  which  dragged  heavily,  and  half  wishing 
that  Uncle  Nat  would  hasten  his  coming,  and  have  it  over  1 


The  sun  went  down,  and  as  darkness  settled  o'er  the 
earth,  a  heavy  load  seemed  pressing  upon  Eugenia's  spirits. 
It  wanted  now  but  a  few  minutes  of  the  time  when  the 
train  was  due,  and  trembling,  she  scarcely  knew  why,  she 
Bat  alone  in  her  chamber,  wondering  how  she  should  meet 
her  uncle,  or  what  excuse  she  should  render,  if  her  perfidy 
were  revealed.  The  door  bell  rang,  and  in  the  hall  below 
she  heard  the  voices  of  Mr.  Hastings  and  Dora. 

"  I  must  go  down,  now,"  she  said,  and  forcing  a  smile  to 
her  face,  she  descended  to  the  parlor,  as  the  shrill  whistle 
of  the  engine  sounded  in  the  distance. 

She  had  just  time  to  greet  her  visitors  and  enjoy  theif 
surprise  at  the  announcement  of  her  marriage,  when  her 
ear  caught  the  sound  of  heavy,  tramping  footsteps,  coming 
dp  the  walk,  and  a  violent  ringing  of  the  bell  announced 
another  arrival. 

"  You  go  to  the  door,  Stephen,"  she  whispered,  while  an 
icy  coldness  crept  over  her. 


188  DORA   DEANE. 

He  obeyed,  and  bending  forward  in  a  listeung  attitude^ 
^he  heard  him  say,  "  Good  evening,  Mr.  Hamilton." 

Just  then,  a  telegraphic  look  between  Mr.  Hastings  and 
Dora  caught  her  eye,  and  springing  to  her  feet,  she  ex 
claimed,  "  Mr.  Hamilton .'"  while  a  suspicion  of  the  truth 
Gashed  like  lightning  upon  her.  The  next  moment  be  stood 
before  them,  Uncle  Nat,  his  glittering  black  eyes  fixed  upon 
Eugenia,  who  quailed  beneath  that  withering  glance. 

." I  promised  you  I  would  come  topflight,"  he  said,  "and 
Tarn  here,  Nathaniel  Deane !  Are  you  glad  to  see  me  ?"  and 
his  eyes  never  moved  from  Eugenia,  who  sat  like  one  petri 
fied,  as  did  her  mother  and  sister.  "  Have  you  no  word  of 
welcome  ?"  he  continued.  "  Your  letters  were  wont  to  bo 
kind  and  affectionate.  I  have  brought  them  with  me,  as  a 
passport  to  your  friendship.  Shall  I  show  them  to  you  ?" 

His  manner  was  perfectly  cool  and  collected,  but  Eugenia 
felt  the  stiug  each  word  implied,  and,  starting  up,  she 
glared  defiantly  at  him,  exclaiming,  "  Insolent  wretch  1 
What  mean  you  by  this  ?  And  what  business  had  you  thus 
to  deceive  us  ?" 

.  "  The  fair  Eugenia  does  not  believe  in  deceit,  it  seems. 
Pity  her  theory  and  practice  do  not  better  accord,"  he  au« 
Bwered,  while  a  scornful  smile  curled  his  lips. 

"  What  proof  have  you,  sir,  for  what  you  say  ?"  demanded 
Eugenia  ;  and  with  the  same  cold,  scornful  smile,  he  replied, 
"Far  better  proof  than  you  imagine,  fair  lady.  Would 
you  like  to  hear  it  ?" 

Not  suspecting  how  much  he  knew,  and  goaded  to  mad 
ness  by  his  calm,  quiet  manner,  Eugenia  replied,  "  \  defy 
you,  old  man,  to  prove  aught  against  me." 

"First,  then,"  said  he,  "let  me  ask  you  what  use  yop 
made  of  that  fifteen  hundred  dollars  sent  to  Dora  nearly 
three  years  ago  ?  Was  not  this  piano,"  laying  his  hand 


THE    DOUBLE    SURPRISE.  181 

upon  the  instrument,  "  bought  with  a  part  of  that  money  ? 
Did  Dora  ever  see  it,  or  the  live  hundred  dollars  sent  annu 
ally  by  me  ?" 

Eugenia  was  confounded.  He  did  know  it  all,  biri  how 
Sad  she  been  betrayed  ?  It  must  be  through  Dora's  agency, 
ahe  thought,  and  turning  fiercely  towards  her,  she  heaped 
upon  her  such  a  torrent  of  abuse,  that,  in  thunder-like  tones, 
Uacle  Nat,  now  really  excited,  bade  her  keep  silent ;  while 
Howard  Hastings  arose,  and  confronting  the  angry  woman, 
explained  briefly  what  he  had  done,  and  why  he  had  done 
it. 

"  Then  you,  too,  have  acted  a  traitor's  part  ?"  she  hissed  ; 
"  but  it  shall  not  avail,  I  will  not  be  trampled  down  by 
either  you,  or  this  grey  haired  " 

"  Hold  1"  cried  Uncle  Nat,  laying  his  broad  palm  heav 
ily  upon  her  shoulder.  "  I  am  too  old  to  hear  such  lan 
guage  from  you,  young  lady.  I  do  not  wish  to  upbraid  you 
farther  with  what  you  have  done.  'Tis  sufficient  that  I 
know  it  all,  that  henceforth  we  are  strangers  ;"  and  he 
turned  to  leave  the  room,  when  Mrs.  Deane,  advancing  to 
wards  him,  said  pleadingly,  "  Is  is  thus,  Nathaniel,  that  you 
return  to  us,  after  so  many  years  ?  Eugenia  may  have 
been  tempted  to  do  wrong,  but  will  you  not  forgive  her  for 
her  father's  sake?'' 

"Never  !"  he  answered  fiercely,  shaking  off  the  hand  she 
had  lain  upon  his  arm.  "  Towards  Alice  I  bear  no  ill  will  ; 
and  you,  madam,  who  suffered  this  wrong  to  be  done,  I 
may,  in  time,  forgive,  but  that  woman,"  pointing  towards 
Engenia,  "  Never  .'"  And  he  left  the  room,  while  Eugenia, 
completely  overwhelmed  with  a  sense  of  her  detected  guilt, 
burst  into  a  passionate  fit  of  tears,  sobbing  so  bitterly 
that  Dora,  touched  by  her  grief,  stole  softly  to  her  side, 
and  was  about  to  speak,  when,  thrusting  her  away,  Eugenia 


180  DORA    DEANE. 

exclaimed,  "  Leave  me,  Dora  Deane,  and  never  come  here 
again.  The  sight  of  you  mocking  my  wretchedness  is  hate« 
ful  and  more  than  I  can  bear  1" 

There  were  tears  in  Dora's  eyes,  as  she  turned  away,  airj 
offering  her  hand  to  her  aunt  and  cousin,  she  took  her  hus 
band's  arm,  and  went  out  of  a  house,  where  she  had  suf 
fered  so  much,  and  which,  while  Eugenia  remained,  she 
would  never  enter  again. 

Like  one  in  a  dream  sat  Stephen  Grey.  He  had  been  a 
silent  spectator  of  the  exciting  scene,  but  thought  had  been 
busy,  and  ere  it  was  half  over,  his  own  position  was  clearly 
defined,  and  he  knew  that,  even  as  he  had  cheated  Eugenia 
Deane,  so  Eugenia  Deane  had  cheated  him.  It  was  an  even 
thing,  and  unprincipled  and  selfish  as  he  was,  he  felt  that 
he  had  no  cause  for  complaint.  Still  the  disappointment  wag 
not  the  less  severe,  and  when  the  bride  of  a  day,  looking 
reproachfully  at  him  through  her  tears,  asked,  "  why  he 
didn't  say  to  her  a  word  of  comfort  ?"  he  coolly  replied, 
'  because  I  have  nothing  to  say.  You  have  got  yourself 
into  a  deuced  mean  scrape,  and  so  have  "I  I" 

Eugenia  did  not  then  understand  what  he  meant,  and, 
when,  an  hour  or  two  later,  she  dried  her  tears,  and  began 
to  speak  of  an  immediate  removal  to  Philadelphia,  where 
she  would  be  more  effectually  out  of  Uncle  Nat's  way,  she 
was  surprised  at  his  asking  her,  "  what  she  proposed  doing 
in  the  city,  and  if  she  had  any  means  of  support." 

"  Means  of  support  1"  she  repeated.  "  Why  do  you  ask 
that  question,  when  your  father  is  worth  half  a  million,  arid 
you  are  his  only  son  ?" 

With  a  prolonged  whistle,  he  answered.  "  Father  worth 
a  copper  cent  and  I  a  precious  fool  comes  nearer  the  truth  !" 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?"  she  asked,  in  unfeigned  astonish* 
ment ;  and  he  replied,  "I  mean  that  three  days  ago  father 


THE    DOUBLE    SURPRISE.  191 

^  to  the  tune  of  $100,000,  and  if  you  or  I  have  any 
bread  to  eat  hereafter,  one  or  the  other  of  us  must  earn  it !" 

Eugenia  had  borne  much  to-day,  and  this  last  announce 
ment  was  the  one  straw  too  many.  Utterly  crushed,  she 
buried  her  face  in  her  hands,  and  remained  silent.  She 
•could  not  reproach  her  husband,  for  the  deception  had  been 
equal,  and  now,  when  this  last  hope  had  swept  away,  the 
world  indeed  seemed  dreary  and  dark. 

"  What  shall  we  do  ?"  she  groaned  at  last,  in  a  voice  so 
full  of  despair,  that  with  a  feeling  akin  to  pity,  Stephen,  who 
had  been  pacing  up  and  down  the  room,  came  to  her  side, 
saying,  "  why  can't  we  stay  as  we  are  ?  I  can  average  a 
pettyfogging  suit  a  month,  and  that'll  be  better  than 
nothing." 

"  I  wouldn't  remain  here  on  any  account  after  what  has 
happened,"  said  Eugenia  ;  "  and  besides  that,  we  couldn't 
%iay,  if  we  would,  for  now  that  Uncle  Nat's  remittance  is 
withdrawn,  mother  has  nothing  in  the  world  to  live  on." 

"  Couldn't  you  take  in  sewing,"  suggested  Stephen,  "  or 
washing,  or  mopping  ?" 

To  the  sewing  and  the  washing  Eugenia  was  too  indignant 
to  reply,  but  when  it  came  to  the  mopping,  she  lifted  up  her 
hands  in  astonishment,  calling  him  "  a  fool  and  a  simpleton." 

"Hang  me,  if  I  know  anything  about  woman's  work," 
Baid  Stephen,  resuming  his  walk,  and  wondering  why  the 
taking  in  of  mopping  should  be  more  difficult  than  anything 
else.  "  I  have  it,"  he  said  at  length,  running  his  fingers 
over  the  keys  of  the  piano.  "  Can't  you  teach  music  ? 
The  piano  got  you  into  a  fix,  and  if  I  were  you,  I'd  make  it 
help  me  out." 

"  I'll  use  it  for  kindling-wood  first,"  was  her  answer,  and 
Stephen  resumed  his  cogitations,  which  resulted  finally  in 
his  telling  her,  that  on  the  prairies  of  Illinois  there  were  a 


198  DORA    DEANE. 

few  acres  of 'land,  of  which  he  was  the  rightful  owner 
There  was  a  house  oa  it,  too,  he  said,  though  iu  what  con 
dition  he  did  not  know,  and  if  they  only  had  a  little  money 
with  which  to  start,  it  would  be  best  for  them  to  go  out 
there  at  once.  This  plan  struck  Eugenia  more  favorably 
than  any  which  he  had  proposed. 

Humbled  as  she  was,  she  felt  that  the  further  she  were 
from  Dunwood,  the  happier  she  would  be,  and  after  a  con- 
sultation  with  Mrs.  Deane,  it  was  decided  that  the  beautiful 
rosewood  piano  should  be  sold,  and  that  with  the  proceeds, 
Stephen  and  Eugenia  should  bury  themselves  for  a  time  at 
the  West.  Two  weeks  more  found  them  on  their  way  to 
their  distant  home,  and  when  that  winter,  Dora  Hastings,  at 
Rose  Hill,  pushed  aside  the  heavy  damask  which  shaded  her 
pleasant  window,  and  looked  out  upon  the  snow-covered 
lawn  and  spacious  garden  beyond,  Eugenia  Grey,  in  her 
humble  cabin,  looked  through  her  paper-curtained  window 
upon  the  snow-clad  prairie,  which  stretched  away  as  far  as 
eye  could  reach,  and  shed  many  bitter  tears,  as  she  heard 
the  wind  go  wailing  past  her  door,  and  thought  of  her  home, 
far  to  the  east,  towards  the  rising  sun. 


CONCLUSION.  IN 


CHAPTER    XXII. 

CONCLUSION. 

THREK  years  have  passed  away,  and  twice  the  wintry 
storms  have  swept  over  the  two  graves,  which,  on  the  prai 
ries  of  Illinois,  were  made  when  the  glorious  Indian  sum 
mer  sun  was  shining  o'er  the  earth,  and  the  withered 
leaves  of  autumn  were  strewn  upon  the  ground.  Stephen 
and  Eugenia  are  dead — he,  dying  as  a  drunkard  dies — she, 
as  a  drunkard's  wife.  Uncle  Nat  had  been  to  visit  the 
western  world,  and  on  his  return  to  Rose  Hill,  there  was  a 
softened  light  in  his  eye,  and  a  sadness  in  the  tones  of  his 
voice,  as,  drawing  Dora  to  his  side,  he  whispered;  "  I  have 
forgiven  her — forgiven  Eugenia  Deane." 

Then  he  told  her  how  an  old  man  in  his  wanderings  came 
«ue  day  to  a  lonely  cabin,  where  a  wild-eyed  woman  was 
raving  in  delirium,  and  tearing  out  handfuls  of  the  long 
black  hair  which  floated  over  her  shoulders.  This  she  was 
counting  one  by  one,  just  as  the  old  East  India  man  had 
counted  the  silken  tress  which  was  sent  to  him  over  the  sea, 
and  she  laughed  with  maniacal  glee  as  she  said  the  number 
ing  of  all  her  hairs  would  atone  for  the  sin  she  had  done. 
At  intervals,  too,  rocking  to  and  fro,  she  sang  of  the  fearful 
night  when  she  had  thought  to  steal  the  auburn  locks  con 
cealed  within  the  old  green  trunk  ;  on  which  the  darknesa 
lay  so  heavy  and  so  black,  that  she  had  turned  away  in 

9 


194  DORA    DEAN!. 

terror,  and  glided  from  the  room.  In  the  old  man's  heart 
there  was  much  of  bitterness  towards  that  erring  woman  for 
the  wrong  she  had  done  to  him  and  his,  but  when  he  found 
her  thus,  when  he  looked  on  the  new-made  grave  beneath 
the  buckeye  tree,  and  felt  that  she  was  dying  of  starvation 
and  neglect,  when  he  saw  how  the  autumn  rains,  dripping 
from  a  crevice  in  the  roof,  had  drenched  her  scanty  pillows 
through  and  through — when  he  sought  in  the  empty  cup 
board  for  food  or  drink  in  vain,  his  heart  softened  towards 
her,  and  for  many  weary  days  he  watched  her  with  the  tender- 
est  care,  administering  to  all  her  wants,  and  soothing  her 
in  her  frenzied  moods,  as  he  would  a  little  child,  and  when 
at  last  a  ray  of  reason  shone  for  a  moment  on  her  darkened 
mind,  and  she  told  him  how  much  she  had  suffered  from  tho 
hands  of  one  who  now  slept  just  without  the  door,  and 
asked  him  to  forgive  her  ere  she  died,  he  laid  upon  his 
bosom  her  aching  head,  from  which  in  places  the  long  hair 
had  been  torn,  leaving  it  spotted  and  bald,  and  bending 
gently  over  her,  he  whispered  in  her  ear,  "  As  freely  as  I 
hope  to  be  forgiven  of  Heaven,  so  freely  forgive  I  you." 

With  a  look  of  deep  gratitude,  the  dark  eyes  glanced  at 
him  for  a  moment,  then  closed  forever,  and  he  was  alone 
with  the  dead. 

Some  women,  whose  homes  were  distant  two  or  three 
miles,  had  occasionally  shared  his  vigils,  and  from  many  a 
log  cabin  the  people  gathered  themselves  together,  and 
made  for  the  departed  a  grave,  and  when  the  sun  was  high 
in  the  heavens,  and  not  a  cloud  dimmed  the  canopy  of  blue, 
they  buried  her  beside  her  husband,  where  the  prairie 
flowers  and  the  tall  rank  grass  would  wave  above  her  head. 

This  was  the  story  he  told,  and  Dora  listening  to  it,  wept 
bitterly  over  the  ill-fated  Eugenia,  whose  mother  and  sister 
never  knew  exactly  how  she  died,  for  Uncle  N  »thaniel  would 


CONCLUSION.  191 

not  tell  them,  but  from  the  time  of  his  return  from  the  West 
his  manner  towards  them  was  changed,  and  when  the  New 
Year  came  round,  one  hundred  golden  guineas  found  en 
trance  at  their  door,  accompanied  with  a  promise  that  when 
the  day  returned  again,  the  gift  should  be  repeated. 
****** 

On  the  vine-wreathed  pillars,  and  winding  walks  of  Rose 
Hill,  the  softened  light  of  the  setting  sun  is  shining.  April 
flowers  have  wakened  to  life  the  fair  spring  blossoms,  whose 
delicate  perfume,  mingling  with  the  evening  air,  steals 
through  the  open  casement,  and  kisses  the  bright  face  of 
Dora,  beautiful  now  as  when  she  first  called  him  her  husband 
who  sits  beside  her,  and  who  each  day  blesses  her  as  his 
choicest  treasure. 

On  the  balcony  without,  in  a  large  armed  willow  chair,  is 
seated  an  old  man,  and  as  the  fading  sunlight  falls  around 
him,  a  bright-haired  little  girl,  not  yet  two  years  of  age, 
climbs  upon  his  knee,  and  winding  her  chubby  arms  aroaad 
his  neck,  lisps  the  name  of  "  Grandpa,"  and  the  old  man, 
folding  her  to  his  bosom,  sings  to  her  softly  and  low  of 
another  Fannie,  whose  eyes  of  blue  were  much  like  those 
which  look  so  lovingly  into  his  face.  Anon  darkness  steals 
over  all,  but  the  new  moon,  "  hanging  like  a  silver  thread 
in  the  western  sky,"  shows  us  where  Howard  Hastings  la 
Bitting,  still  with  Dora  at  his  side. 

On  the  balcony,  all  is  silent ;  the  tremulous  voice  hag 
ceased  ;  the  blue-eyed  child  no  longer  listens  ;  old  age  and 
infancy  sleep  sweetly  now  together  ;  the  song  is  ended  ;  the 
story  is  done. 


MAGGIE  MILLER; 


OR, 


OLD    HAGAB'S     SECKET. 


MAGGIE  MILLER; 


OLD    HAGAR'S    SECRET 


CHAPTER  I. 

THE    OLD    HOUSE    BY   THE    MILL. 

"Mm  the  New  England  hills,  and  beneath  the  shadow  of 
their  dim  old  woods,  is  a  running  brook,  whose  deep  waters 
were  not  always  as  merry  and  frolicsome  as  now;  for  yeara 
before  our  story  opens,  pent  up  and  impeded  in  their  course, 
they  dashed  angrily  against  their  prison  walls,  and  turned 
the  creaking  wheel  of  an  old  saw  mill,  with  a  sullen,  rebel 
lious  roar.  The  mill  has  gone  to  decay,  and  the  sturdy 
men  who  fed  it  with  the  giant  oaks  of  the  forest,  are  sleep 
ing  quietly  in  the  village  graveyard.  The  waters  of  the 
inill-poud,  too,  relieved  from  their  confinement,  leap  gaily 
over  the  ruined  dam,  tossing  for  a  moment  in  wanton  glee 
their  locks  of  snow-white  foam,  and  then  flowing  on,  half 
i earful ly  as  it  were,  through  the  deep  gorge  overhung  with 
the  hemlock  and  the  pine,  where  the  shadows  of  twilight 
ever  lie,  and  where  the  rocks  frown  gloomily  down  upon  the 
below,  which,  emerging  from  the  darkness,  loses 


HOC  MAGGIE    MILLER. 

itself  at  last  in  the  waters  of  the  gracefully  winding  (Jhico 
pee,  and  leaves  far  behind  the  moss-covered  walls,  of  what 
is  familiarly  known  as  the  "  Old  House  by  the  Mill." 

'Tis  a  huge,  old-fashioned  building,  distant  nearly  a  mile 
from  the  public  highway,  and  surrounded  so  thickly  by  for 
est  trees,  that  the  bright  sunlight,  dancing  merrily  midst  the 
rustling  leaves  above,  falls  but  seldom  on  the  time-stained 
walls  of  dark  grey  stone,  where  the  damp  and  dews  of  more 
than  a  century  have  fallen,  and  where  now  the  green  inoss 
clings  with  a  loving  grasp,  as  if  'twere  its  rightful  resting 
place.  When  the  thunders  of  the  Revolution  shook  the 
hills  of  the  Bay  State,  and  the  royal  banner  floated  in  the 
evening  breeze,  the  house  was  owned  by  an  old  Englishman, 
who,  loyal  to  his  king  and  country,  denounced  as  rebels  the 
followers  of  Washington.  Against  these,  however,  he 
would  not  raise  his  hand,  for  among  them  were  many  long 
tried  friends,  who  had  gathered -with  him  around  the  festa1 
board  ;  so  he  chose  the  only  remaining  alternative,  and 
went  back  to  his  native  country,  cherishing  the  hope  that 
he  should  one  day  return  to  the  home  he  loved  so  well,  and 
listen  again  to  the  musical  flow  of  the  water-brook,  which 
could  be  distinctly  heard  from  the  door  of 'the  mansion. 
But  his  wish  was  vain,  for  when  at  last  America  was  free, 
and  the  British  troops  recalled,  he  slept  beneath  the  sod  of 
England,  and  the  old  house  was  for  many  years  deserted. 
The  Englishman  had  been  greatly  beloved,  and  his  property 
was  unmolested,  while  the  weeds  and  grass  grew  tall  and 
rank  in  the  garden  beds,  and  the  birds  of  heaven  built  their 
nests  beneath  the  projecting  roof,  or  held  a  holiday  in  the 
gloomy,  silent  rooms. 

As  time  passed  on,  however,  and  no  one  appeared  to  dis 
pute  their  right,  different  families  occupied  the  house  at  inter* 
rals,  until  at  last,  vhen  nearly  fifty  years  had  elapsed,  news 


THE    OLD    HOUSE    BY    THE    MILL.  201 

tvas  one  day  received  that  Madam  Conway,  a  grand-daughter 
of  the  old  Englishman,  having  met  with  reverses  at  home, 
had  determined  to  emigrate  to  the  New  World,  and  remem 
bering  the  "  House  by  the  Mill,"  of  whiclj  she  had  heard  so 
iruch,  she  wished  to  know  if  peaceable  possession  of  it 
would  be  allowed  her,  in  case  she  decided  upon  removing 
thither,  and  making  it  her  future  home.  To  this  plan  no 
objection  was  made,  for  the  aged  people  of  Hillsdale  still 
cherished  the  memory  of  the  hospitable  old  man,  whose 
locks  were  grey  while  they  were  yet  but  children,  and  the 
younger  portion  of  the  community  hoped  for  a  renewal  of 
the  gaieties  which  they  had  heard  were  once  so  common  at 
the  old  stone  house. 

But  in  this  they  were  disappointed,  for  Madam  Conway 
was  a  proud,  unsocial  woman,  desiring  no  acquaintance  what 
ever  with  her  neighbors,  who,  after  many  ineffectual  attempts 
at  something  like  friendly  intercourse,  concluded  to  leave 
her  entirely  alone,  and  contented  themselves  with  watching 
the  progress  of  matters  at  "  Mill  Farm,"  as  she  designated  the 
place,  which  soon  began  to  show  visible  marks  of  improve 
ment.  The  Englishman  was  a  man  of  taste,  and  Madam 
Conway's  first  work  was  an  attempt  to  restore  the  grounds 
to  something  of  their  former  beauty.  The  yard  and  garden 
were  cleared  of  weeds  ;  the  walks  and  flower-beds  laid  out 
with  care,  and  then  the  neighbors  looked  to  see  her  cut 
away  a  few  of  the  multitude  of  trees,  which  had  sprung  up 
around  her  home.  But  this  she  had  no  intention  of  doing. 
<:  They  shut  her  out,"  she  said,  "  from  the  prying  eyes  of 
the  vulgar,  and  ,phe  would  rather  it  should  be  so."  So  the 
frees  remained,  throwing  their  long  shadows  upon  the  high, 
narrow  windows,  and  into  the  large  square  rooms,  where 
the  morning  light  and  the  noon-day  heat  seldom  found 
entrance,  and  which  seemed  like  so  many  cold,  silent 

9* 


10S  MAGGIE    MILLER. 

caverns,  with  their  old-fashioned  massive  furniture,  their 
dark,  heavy  curtains,  and  the  noiseless  footfall  of  the  stately 
lady,  who  moved  ever  with  the  same  measured  tread,  speak 
ing  always  softly  end  low  to  the  household  servants,  who, 
having  been  trained  in  her  service,  had  followed  her  across 
the  sea. 

From  these,  the  neighbors  learned  that  Madam  Conway 
had  in  London  a  married  daughter,  Mrs.  Miller ;  that  old 
Hagar  Warren,  the  strange  looking  woman,  who,  more  than 
any  one  else,  shared  her  mistress's  confidence  had  grown  up 
in  the  family,  receiving  a  very  good  education,  and  had 
nursed  their  young  mistress,  Miss  Margaret,  which  of  course 
entitled  her  to  more  respect  than  was  usually  bestowed  upon 
menials  like  her  ;  that  Madam  Conway  was  very  aristo 
cratic,  very  proud  of  her  high  English  blood  ;  that,  though 
fihe  lived  alone,  she  attended  strictly  to  all  the  formalities 
of  high-life,  dressing  each  day  with  the  utmost  precision  for 
her  solitary  dinner  ;  dining  from  off  a  service  of  solid  silver, 
and  presiding  with  great  dignity  in  her  straight,  high- 
backed  chair.  She  was  fond,  too,  of  the  ruby  wine,  and  her 
cellar  was  stored  with  the  choicest  liquors,  some  of  which 
she  had  brought  with  her  from  home,  while  others,  it  was 
said,  had  belonged  to  her  grandfather,  and  for  half  a  cen 
tury,  had  remained  unseen  and  unmolested,  while  the 
cobwebs  of  time  had  woven  around  them  a  misty  covering, 
making  them  still  more  valuable  to  the  lady,  who  knew  full 
well  how  age  improved  such  tilings. 

Regularly  each  day  she  rode  in  her  ponderous  carriage, 
tometimes  alone,  and  sometimes  accompanied  by  Hester,  the 
laughter  of  old  Hagar,  a  handsome,  intelligent  looking  girl, 
ffho,  after  two  or  three  years  of  comparative  idleness  at 
Mill  Farm,  went  to  Meriden,  Connecticut,  as  seamstress  in  a 
family,  which  had  advertised  for  such  a  person.  With  her, 


THE    OLD    HOUSE    BY    THE    MILL.  201 

departed  the  only  life  of  the  house,  and  during  the  follow 
ing  year  there  ensued  a  monotonous  quiet,  which  waa 
broken  at  last  for  Hagar,  by  the  startling  announcement 
that  her  daughter's  young  mistress  had  died  four  months 
before,  and  the  husband,  a  grey-haired,  elderly  man,  had 
proved  conclusively  that  he  was  in  his  dotage,  by  talking  of 
marriage  to  Hester,  who,  ere  the  letter  reached  her  mother, 
would  probably  be  the  third  bride  of  one,  whose  reputed 
wealth  was  the  only  possible  inducement  to  a  girl  liko 
Hester  Warren. 

With  au  immense  degree  of  satisfaction,  Hagar  read  the 
letter  through,  exulting  that  fortune  had  favored  her  at 
last.  Possessed  of  many  sterling  qualities,  Hagar  Warren 
had  one  glaring  fault  which  had  embittered  her  whole  life. 
Why  others  were"  rich  while  she  was  poor,  she  could  not 
understand,  and  her  heart  rebelled  at  the  fate  which  had 
made  her  what  she  was.  But  Hester  would  be  wealthy, 
nay,  would,  perhaps,  one  day  rival  the  haughty  Mrs. 
Miller  across  the  water,  who  had  been  her  playmate  ;  there 
was  comfort  in  that,  and  she  wrote  to  her  daughter  express 
ing  her  entire  approbation,  and  hinting  vaguely  of  the 
possibility  that  she  herself  might  sometime  cease  to  be  a 
servant,  and  help  do  the  honors  of  Mr.  Hamilton's  house  ! 
To  this  there  came  no  reply,  and  Hagar  was  thinking  seri 
ously  of  making  a  visit  to  Meriden,  when  one  rainy  autumnal 
night,  nearly  a  year  after  Hester's  marriage,  there  came 
another  letter  sealed  with  black.  With  a  sad  foreboding, 
Hagar  opened  it,  and  read  that  Mr.  Hamilton  had  Failed; 
that  his  house  and  farm  were  sold,  and  that  he,  over 
whelmed  with  mortification  both  at  his  failure,  and  the 
opposition  of  his  friends  to  his  last  marriage,  had  died  sud 
denly,  leaving  Hester  with  no  home  in  the  wide  world, 
unless  Madam  Conway  received  her  again  into  her  family. 


204  MAGGIE    MILLER. 

"Just  my  luck  !"  was  Hagar's  mental  comment,  as  she 
finished  reading  the  letter,  and  carried  it  to  her  mistress, 
who  had  always  liked  Hester,  and  who  readily  consented  to 
give  her  a  home,  provided  she  put  on  no  airs,  from  having 
boen  for  a  time  the  wife  of  a  reputed  wealthy  man, 
•'  Mustn't  put  on  airs!"  muttered  Hagar,  as  she  left  the 
room.  "Just  as  if  airs  wasn't  for  anybody  but  high 
bloods,"  and  with  the  canker  worm  of  envy  at  her  heart,  she 
wrote  to  LTester,  who  came  immediately  ;  and  Hagar,  when 
she  heard  her  tell  the  story  of  her  wrongs,  how  her  husband's 
sister,  indignant  at  his  marriage  with  a  sewing  girl,  had  re 
moved  from  him  the  children,  one  a  step-child  and  one  his 
own,  and  how  of  all  his  vast  fortune  there  was  not  left  for 
her  a  penny,  experienced  again  the  old  bitterness  of  feeling, 
and  murmured  that  fate  should  thus  deal  with  her  and 
hers. 

With  the  next  day's  mail,  there  came  to  Madam  Conway 
a  letter,  bearing  a  foreign  postmark,  and  bringing  the  sad 
news  that  her  son-in-law  had  been  lost  in  a  storm,  while 
crossing  the  English  Channel,  and  that  her  daughter  Marga 
ret,  utterly  crushed  and  heart-broken,  would  sail  immediately 
for  America,  where  she  wished  only  to  lay  her  weary  head 
upon  her  mother's  bosom  and  die. 

"  So,  there  is  one  person  that  has  no  respect  for  blood, 
and  that  is  Death,"  said  old  Hagar  to  her  mistress,  when 
she  heard  the  news.  "  He  has  served  us  both  alike,  he  haa 
taken  my  son-in-law  first  and  yours  next." 

"  Frowning  haughtily,  Madam  Conway  bade  her  be  silent, 
telling  her  at  the  same  time  to  see  that  the  rooms  in  the 
north  part  of  the  building  were  put  in  perfect  order  for  Mrs. 
Miller,  who  would  probably  come  in  the  next  vessel.  In 
lullen  silence  Hagar  withdrew,  and  for  several  days  worked 
Half  relunctantly  in  the  "  north  rooms,"  as  Madam  Conwaj 


THE    OLD    HOUSE    BY    THE    MILL.  20« 

termed  a  comparatively  pleasant,  airy  suit  of  apartments, 
with  a  balcony  above,  which  looked  out  upou  the  old  mill- 
dam,  and  the  water  brook  pouring  over  it. 

"  There'll  be  big  doings  when  my  lady  comes,"  said  Hagar 
one  day  to  her  daughter.  "  It'll  be  Hagar  here,  and  Hagar 
thore,  and  Hagar  everywhere,  but  I  shan't  hurry  myself, 
I'm  getting  too  old  to  wait  on  a  chit  like  her." 

"  Don't  talk  so,  mother,"  said  Hester.  "  Margaret  was 
always  kind  to  me.  She  is  not  to  blame  for  being  rich,  while 
I  am  poor." 

"  But  somebody's  to  blame,"  interrupted  old  Hagar. 
"  You  was  always  accounted  the  handsomest  arid  cleverest 
of  the  two,  and  yet  for  all  you'll  be  nothing  but  a  drudge 
to  wait  on  her  and  the  little  girl." 

Hester  only  sighed  in  reply,  while  her  thoughts  went  for 
ward  to  the  future,  and  what  it  would  probably  bring  her. 
Hester  Warren  and  Margaret  Conway  had  been  children 
together,  and  in  spite  of  the  difference  of  there  stations  they 
had  loved  each  other  dearly  ;  and  when  at  last  the  weary 
traveller  came,  with  her  pale  sad  face  and  mourning  garb, 
none  gave  her  so  heartfelt  a  welcome  as  Hester  ;  and  dur 
ing  the  week  when  from  exhaustion  and  excitement,  she 
was  confined  to  her  bed,  it  was  Hester  who  nursed  her  with 
the  utmost  care,  soothing  her  to  sleep,  and  then  omusing 
the  little  Theo,  a  child  of  two  years  Hagar,  too,  softened 
by  her  young  misstress's  sorrow,  repented  of  her  harsh 
words,  and  watched  each  night  with  the  invalid,  who  once 
when  her  mind  seemed  wandering  far  back  in  the  past, 
whispered  softly,  "  Tell  me  the  Lord's  prayer,  dear  Hagar, 
Just  as  you  told  it  to  me  years  ago  when  I  was  a  little 
child." 

It  was  a  long  time  since  Hagar  had  breathed  that  prayer, 
but  at  Mrs.  Miller's  request  she  commenced  it,  repeating  it 


206  MAGGIE    MILLER. 

correctlj  until  she  carne  to  the  words,  "  Give  us  this  daj 
our  daily  bread,"  then  she  hesitated,  and  bending  forward 
said,  "  What  comes  next,  Miss  Margaret  ?  Is  it,  '  Lead  us 
not  into  temptation  ?'  " 

'  Yes,  yes,"  whispered  the  half  unconscious  lady.  " '  Lead 
as  not  into  temptation/  that's  it ;"  then,  as  if  there  were 
around  her  a  dim  foreboding  of  the  great  wrong  Hagar  was 
to  do,  she  took  her  old  nurse's  hand  between  her  own,  and 
continued,  "  Say  it  often,  Hagar,  '  Lead  us  not  into  tempta 
tation  ;'  you  have  much  need  for  that  prayer." 

A  moment  more  and  Margaret  Miller  slept,  while  be 
side  her  sat  Hagar  Warren,  half  shuddering  she  knew  not 
why,  as  she  thought  of  her  mistress's  words,  which  seemed 
to  her,  so  much  like  the  spirit  of  prophecy. 

"  Why  do  /  need  that  prayer  more  than  any  one  else  ?*• 
Bhe  said,  at  last.  "  I  have  never  been  tempted  more  than  1 
could  bear — never  shall  be  tempted — and  if  I  am,  old  Hagar 
Warren,  bad  as  she  is,  can  resist  temptation,  without  that 
prayer." 

Still,  reason  as  she  would,  Hagar  could  not  shake  off  the 
Btrange  feeling,  and  as  she  sat,  half  dozing  in  her  chair,  with 
the  dinrlamplight  flickering  over  her  dark  face,  she  fancied 
that  the  October  wind,  sighing  so  mournfully  through  the 
locust  trees  beneath  the  window  and  then  dying  away  in  the 
distance,  bore  upon  its  wing,  "  Lead  us  not  into  temptation 
Hagar  you  have  much  need  to  say  that  prayer." 

"  Aye,  Hagar  Warren,  much  need,  much  need  1 


HAGAR'S    SECRET.  SOt 


CHAPTER   II. 
HAQAK'S    SECRET. 

THE  wintry  winds  were  blowing  cold  and  chill  around  the 
old  stone  house,  and  the  deep  untrodden  snow  lay  high  piled 
upon  the  ground.  For  many  days,  the  grey.,  leaden  clouds 
had  frowned  gloomily  down  upon  the  earth  below,  covering 
it  with  a  thick  veil  of  white.  But  the  storm  was  over  now, 
with  the  setting  sun  it  had  gone  to  rest,  and  the  pale  moon 
light  stole  softly  into  the  silent  chamber,  where  Madam 
Couway  bent  anxiously  down  to  see  if  but  the  faintest 
breath  came  from  the  parted  lips  of  her  only  daughter. 
There  had  been  born  to  her  that  night  another  grandchild — 
a  little,  helpless  girl,  which  now  in  an  adjoining  room  was 
Hagar's  special  care  ;  and  Hagar,  sitting  there  with  the  wee 
creature  upon  her  lap,  and  the  dread  fear  at  her  heart  that 
her  youug  mistress  might  die,  forgot  for  once  to  repine  at 
her  lot,  and  did  cheerfully  whatever  was  required  of  her  to 
do. 

There  was  silence  in  the  rooms  below — silence  in  the 
chambers  above — silence  everywhere — for  the  sick  woman 
seemed  fast  nearing  the  deep,  dark  river,  whose  waters 
move  onward  but  never  return. 

Almost  a  week  went  by,  and  then,  in  a  room  far 
more  humble  than  that  where  Margaret  Miller  lay,  another 
immortal  being  was  given  to  the  world  ;  and  with  a  soft- 
wed  light  in  her  keen  black  eyes,  old  Hagar  told  to  her 


208  MAGGIE    MILLER. 

Btatciy  mistress,  when  she  met  her  on  the  stairs,  that  she, 
too,  was  a  grandmother. 

"  You  must  not  on  that  account  neglect  Margaret's 
child,"  was  Madam  Conway's  answer,  as  with  a  wave  of  her 
hand,  she  passed  on  ;  and  this  was  all  she  said — riot  a  word 
of  sympathy  or  congratulation  for  the  peculiar  old  woman 
whose  heart,  so  long  benumbed,  had  been  roused  to  a  better 
state  of  feeling,  and  who  in  the  first  joy  of  her  new-born 
happiness,  had  hurried  to  her  mistress,  fancying  for  the  mo 
ment  that  she  was  almost  her  equal. 

"  Don't  neglect  Margaret's  child  for  that  !"  How  the 
words  rang  in  her  ears,  as  she  fled  up  the  narrow  stairs  and 
through  the  dark  hall,  till  the  low  room  was  reached  where 
lay  the  babe  for  whom  Margaret's  child  was  not  to  be  neg 
lected.  All  the  old  bitterness  had  returned,  and  as  hour 
after  hour  went  by,  and  Madam  Couway  came  not  near, 
while  the  physician  and  the  servants  looked  in  for  a  mo 
ment  only  and  then  hurried  away  to  the  other  sick  room, 
where  all  their  services  were  kept  in  requisition,  she  mut 
tered  :  "  Little  would  they  care  if  Hester  died  upon  my 
hands.  And  she  will  die  too,"  she  continued,  as  by  the 
fading  daylight  she  saw  the  palor  deepen  on  her  daughter's 
face. 

And  Hagar  was  right,  for  Hester's  sands  were  nearer  run 
than  those  of  Mrs.  Miller.  The  utmost  care  might  not,  per 
haps,  have  saved  her,  but  the  matter  was  not  tested,  and 
when  the  long  clock  at  the  head  of  the  stairs  struck  the 
hour  of  midnight,  she  murmured,  "  It  is  getting  dark  here, 
mother — so  dark — and  I  am  growing  cold.  Can  it  b6 
death  ?" 

"  Yes,  Hester,  'tis  death,"  answered  Hagar,  and  her  voice 
was  unnaturally  calm  as  she  laid  her  hand  on  the  clammy 
brow  of  her  dan  -liter. 


HAGAR'S    SECRET.  20» 

An  hour  later,  and  Madam  Conway,  who  sat  dozing  in 
the  parlor  below,  ready  for  any  summons  which  might 
come  from  Margaret's  room,  was  roused  by  the  touch  of  a 
cold,  hard  hand,  and  Hagar  Warren  stood  before  her. 

"  Corne,"  sho  said,  "come  with  me  ;"  and  thinking  only  of 
Margaret,  Madam  Conway  arose  to  follow  her.  "Not 
there — but  tiiis  way,"  said  Hagar,  as  her  mistress  turned 
towards  Mrs.  Miller's  door,  and  grasping  firmly  the- lady's 
arm,  she  led  to  the  room  where  Hester  lay  dead,  with  her 
young  baby  clasped  lovingly  to  her  bosom.  "  Look  at  her 
— and  pity  mo  now,  if  you  never  did  before.  She  was  all  I 
had  in  the  world  to  love,"  said  Hagar  passionately. 

Madam  Conway  was  not  naturally  a  hard-hearted  wo 
man,  and  she  answered  gently,  "  I  do  pity  you,  Ilagar,  and 
I  did  not  think  Hester  was  so  ill.  "Why  haven't  you  let 
me  know  ?"  To  this  Hagar  made  no  direct  reply,  and 
after  a  few  more  inquiries  Madam  Conway  left  the  room, 
saying  she  would  send  up  the  servants  to  do  whatever  was 
necessary.  When  it  was  known  throughout  the  house  that 
Hester  was  dead,  much  surprise  was  expressed  and  a  good 
deal  of  sympathy  manifested  for  old  Hagar,  who,  with  a 
gloomy  brow,  hugged  to  her  heart  the  demon  of  jealousy, 
which  kept  whispering  to  her  of  the  difference  there  would 
be  were  Margaret  to  die.  It  was  deemed  advisable  to  keep 
Hester's  death  a  secret  from  Mrs.  Miller  ;  so,  with  as  little 
ceremony  as  possible,  the  body  was  buried  at  the  close  of 
the  day,  in  an  inclosure  which  had  been  set  apart  as  a  family 
burying  ground  ;  and  when  again  the  night  shadows  fell, 
Ilugar  Warren  sat  in  her  silent  room,  brooding  o'er  her 
grief,  and  looking  oft  at  the  plain  pine  cradle,  where  lay  the 
little  motherless  child,  her  grand-daughter.  Occasionally, 
too,  her  eye  wandered  towards  the  mahogany  crib,  where 
another  infant  slept.  Perfect  quiet  seemed  necessary  for 


J10  MAGGIE    MILLER. 

• 

Mrs.  Miller,  and  Madam  Conway  had  ordered  her  baby  to 
be  removed  from  the  ante-chamber  where  first  it  had  been 
kept,  so  tl.at  Hagar  had  the  two  children  in  her  own 
room. 

In  the  pine  cradle  there  was  a  rustling  sonnd  ;  the  baby 
was  awaking,  and  taking  it  upon  her  lap,  Hagar  soothed  it 
again  to  sleep,  gazing  earnestly  upon  it  to  see  if  it  were  like 
its  mother.  It  was  a  bright,  healthy-looking  infant,  and 
though  five  days  younger  than  that  of  Mrs.  Miller,  was  quite 
as  large  and  looked  as  old. 

" And  you  will  be  a  drudge,  while  she  will  be  a  lady" 
muttered  Hagar,  as  her  tears  fell  on  the  face  of  the  sleeping 
child.  "  Why  need  this  difference  be  ?" 

Old  Hagar  had  forgotten  the  words  "  Lead  us  not  into 
temptation  ;"  and  when  the  tempter  answered  "  It  need  not 
be,"  she  only  started  suddenly  as  if  smitten  by  a  heavy  blow  ; 
but  she  did  not  drive  him  from  her,  and  she  sat  there  reason 
ing  with  herself  that,  "  it  need  not  be."  Neither  the  physi 
cian  nor  Madam  Conway  had  paid  any  attention  to  Marga 
ret's  child  ;  it  had  been  her  special  care,  while  no  one  had 
noticed  hers,  and  newly  born  babies  were  so  much  alike 
that  deception  was  an  easy  matter.  But  could  she  do  it  ? 
Could  she  bear  that  secret  on  her  soul  ?  Madam  Conway, 
though  proud,  had  been  kind  to  her,  and  could  she  thus  de- 
cieve  her  !  Would  her  daughter,  sleeping  in  her  early 
grave,  approve  the  deed.  "  No,  no,"  she  answered  aloud, 
"  she  would  not ;"  and  the  great  drops  of  perspiration  stood 
thickly  upon  her  dark  haggard  face,  as  she  arose  and  laid 
back  in  her  cradle  the  child  whom  she  had  thought  to  make 
an  heiress. 

For  a  time  the  tempter  left  her,  but  returned  ere  long, 
and  creeping  into  her  heart  sung  to  her  beautiful  songs  of  the 
future  which  might  be,  were  Hester's  baby  a  lady.  And 


HAGAR'S    SECRET.  2U 

Hagar,  listening  to  that  song,  fell  asleep,  dreaming  tliat  'h* 
deed  was  done  by  other  agency  than  hers — that  the  little 
face  resting  on  the  downy  pillow,  and  shaded  by  the  costly 
lace,  was  lowly  born  ;  while  the  child,  wrapped  in  the 
coarser  blanket,  came  of  nobler  blood,  even  that  of  the  Con 
ways,  who  boasted  more  than  one  lordly  title.  With  a  ner 
rous  start  she  awoke  at  last,  and  creeping  to  the  cradle  of 
mahogany,  looked  to  see  if  her  dream  were  true  ;  but  it 
was  not.  She  knew  it  by  the  pinched,  blue  look  about  the 
nose,  and  the  thin  covering  of  hair.  This  was  all  the  differ 
ence  which  even  her  eye  could  see,  and  probably  no  other 
person  had  noticed  that,  for  the  child  had  never  been  seen 
save  in  a  darkened  room.  The  sin  was  growing  gradually 
less  heinous,  and  she  could  now  calmly  calculate  the  chances 
for  detection.  Still,  the  conflict  was  long  and  severe,  and 
it  was  not  until  morning  that  the  tempter  gained  a  point  by 
compromising  the  matter,  and  suggesting  that  while  dress 
ing  the  infants  she  should  change  their  clothes  for  once,  just 
to  see  how  fine  cambrics  and  soft  flannel  would  look  upon  a 
grandchild  of  Hagar  Warren  1  "  She  could  easily  change 
them  again — 'twas  only  an  experiment,"  she  said,  as  with 
trembling  hands  she  proceeded  to  divest  the  children  of 
their  wrappings.  But  her  fingers  seemed  all  thumbs,  and 
more  than  one  sharp  pin  pierced  the  tender  flesh  of  her 
little  grandchild,  as  she  fastened  together  the  embroidered 
Blip,  teaching  her  thus  early  had  she  been  able  to  learn 
the  lesson,  that  the  pathway  of  the  rich  is  not  free  from 
thorns. 

Their  toilet  was  completed  at  last — their  cradle  beds  ex 
changed,  and  then  with  a  strange,  undefined  feel'.ng,  old 
Hagar  stood  back  and  looked  to  see  how  the  little  usurper 
became  her  new  position.  She  became  it  well,  and  to 
Hagar's  partial  eyes  it  seemed  more  mete  that  she  should 


ftlS  MAGGIE    MILLER. 

lie  there  beneath  the  silken  covering,  than  the  other  one, 
whose  nose  looked  still  more  pinched  and  blue  in  the  plain 
white  dress  and  cradle  of  pine.  Still,  there  was  a  gnawing 
paiu  at  Hagar's  heart,  and  she  would  perhaps  have  undone 
the  wrong,  had  not  Madam  Conway  appeared  with  inquir 
ies  for  the  baby's  health.  Hagar  could  not  face  her  mistress, 
so  she  turned  away  and  pretended  to  busy,  herself  with  the 
arrangement  of  the  room,  while  the  lady  bending  over  the 
cradle,  said,  "I  think  she  is  improving,  Hagar  ;  I  never  saw 
her  look  so  well ;"  and  she  pushed  back  the  window  curtain 
to  obtain  a  better  view. 

With  a  wild  startled  look  in  her  eye,  Hagar  held  her 
breath  to  hear  what  might  come  next,  but  her  fears  were 
groundless  ;  for  in  her  anxiety  for  her  daughter,  Madam 
Conway  had  heretofore  scarcely  seen  her  grand-child,  and 
had  no  suspicion  now  that  the  sleeper  before  her  was  of 
plebeian  birth,  nor  yet  that  the  other  little  one,  at  whom  she 
did  not  deign  to  look,  was  bone  of  her  bone,  and  flesh  of  her 
flesh.  She  started  to  leave  the  room,  but  impelled  by 
some  sudden  impulse  turned  back  and  stooped  to  kiss  the 
child.  Involuntarily  old  Hagar  sprang  forward  to  stay  tho 
act,  and  grasped  the  lady's  arm,  but  she  was  to  late ;  the 
aristocratic  lips  had  touched  the  cheek  of  Hagar  Warren's 
grand-child,  and  the  secret,  if  now  confessed,  would  never  be 
forgiven. 

"  It  can't  be  helped,"  muttered  Hagar,  and  then,  when 
Mrs.  Conway  asked  an  explanation  of  her  conduct,  she  ans 
wered.  "  I  was  afraid  you'd  wake  her  np,  and  mercy 
knows  I've  had  worry  enough  with  both  the  brats." 

Not  till  then  had  Madain  Couway  observed  how  Laggard 
and  worn  was  Hagar's  face,  and  instead  of  reproving  her  for 
her  bolduess,  she  said  gently,  "  you  have,  indeed,  been  sorely 
tried.  Shall  I  scud  up  Bertha  to  relieve  you  ?" 


HAGAirS  SECRET.  218 

"  No,  no,"  answered  Hagar  hurriedly,  "  I  am  better 
alone." 

The  next  jpoment  Madam  Conway  was  moving  silently 
down  the  narrow  hall,  while  Hagar  on  her  knees  was  weep 
ing  passionately.  One  word  of  kindness  had  effected 
more  than  a  thousand  reproaches  would  have  done  ;  and 
wringing  her  hands  she  cried,  "  I  will  not  do  it ;  I  cannot." 

Approaching  the  cradle  she  was  about  to  lift  the  child, 
when  again  Madam  Conway  was  at  the  door.  She  had 
come,  she  said,  to  take  the  babe  to  Margaret,  who  seemed 
better  this  morning,  and  had  asked  to  see  it. 

"  Not  now,  not  now.  Wait  till  I  put  on  her  a  handsomer 
dress,  and  I'll  bring  her  myself,"  pleaded  Hagar. 

But  Madam  Conway  saw  no  fault  in  the  fine  cambric 
wrapper,  and  Diking  the  infant  in  her  arms,  she  walked  away, 
while  Hagar  followed  stealthily.  Very  lovingly  the  mother 
folded  to  her  bosom  the  babe,  calling  ,it  her  fatherless  one, 
and  wetting  its  face  with  her  tears,  while  through  the  half 
closed  door  peered  Hagar's  wild  dark  eyes — one  moment 
lighting  up  with  exultation  as  she  muttered,  "  it's  my  flesh, 
•my  blood,  proud  lady  1"  and  the  next,  growing  dim  with 
tears,  as  she  thought  of  the  evil  she  had  done. 

"  I  did  not  know  she  had  so  much  hair,"  said  Mrs.  Miller, 
parting  the  silken  locks.  "  I  think  it  will  be  like  mine,''' 
and  she  gave  the  child  to  her  mother,  while  Hagar  glided 
swiftly  back  to  her  room. 

That  afternoon,  the  clergyman,  whose  church  Mrs.  Con- 
way  usually  attended,  called  to  see  Mrs.  Miller, -who  sug- 
jested  that  both  the  children  should  receive  the  rite  of  bap 
tism.  •  Hagar  was  accordingly  bidden  to  prepare  them  for 
the  ceremony,  and  resolving  to  make  one  more  effort  to  undo 
what  she  had  done,  she  dressed  the  child,  whom  she  had 
thought  to  wrong,  in  its  own  clothes,  and  then  anxiously 
awaited  her  mistress's  coming. 


214  MAGGIE    MILLER. 

"  Hagar  Warren  1  What  docs  this  mean  ?  Are  yot» 
crazy  1"  sternly  demanded  Madam  Conway,  when  th« 
old  nurse  held  up  before  her  the  child  with  the  blue 
nose. 

"  No,  not  crazy  yet ;  but  I  shall  be,  if  you  don't  take 
this  one  first,"  answered  Hagar. 

More  than  once  that  day  Madam  Conway  had  heard  the 
servants  hint  that  Hagar's  grief  had  driven  her  insane  ;  and 
now,  when  she  observed  the  unnatural  brightness  in  her 
eyes,  and  saw  what  she  had  done,  she,  too,  thought  it  possi 
ble  that  her  mind  was  partially  unsettled  ;  so  she  said 
gently,  but  firmly,  "  this  is  no  time  for  foolishness,  Hagar. 
They  are  waiting  for  us  in  the  sick-room  ;  so  make  haste 
and  change  the  baby's  dress." 

There  was  something  authoritative  in  her  manner,  and 
Hagar  obeyed,  whispering  incoherently  to  herself,  and  thus 
further  confirming  her  mistress's  suspicions  that  she  was 
partially  insane.  During  the  ceremony,  she  stood  tall  and 
erect  like  some  dark,  grim  statue,  her  hands  firmly  locked 
together,  and  her  eyes  fixed  upon  the  face  of  the  little  one, 
who  was  baptized  "  Margaret  Miller."  As  the  clergyman 
pronounced  that  name,  she  uttered  a  low,  gasping  moan,  but 
her  face  betrayed  no  emotion,  and  very  calmly  she  stepped 
forward  with  the  other  child  upon  her  arm. 

"  What  name  ?"  asked  the  minister,  and  she  answered 
"  her  mother's  ;  call  her  for  her  mother  !" 

"  Hester,"  said  Madam  Conway,  turning  to  the  clergyman, 
who  understood  nothing  from  Hagar's  reply. 

So  "  Hester  "  .was  the  name  given  to  the  child,  in  whose 
feins  the  blood  of  English  noblemen  was  flowing  ;  and  ^vhen 
the  ceremony  was  ended,  Hagar  bore  back  to  her  room 
"  Hester  Hamilton,"  the  child  defrauded  of  her  birthright^ 
and  "  Maggie  Miller,"  the  heroine  of  oar  storj. 


HESTER  AND  MAGGIE.  ill 


CHAPTER   III. 

HESTER    AND     MAGGIE. 

"  IT  is  over  now,"  old  Hagar  thought,  as  she  laid  the 
children  upon  their  pillows.  "  The  deed  is  done,  and  by 
their  own  hands  too.  There  is  nothing  left  for  me  now  but 
a  confession,  and  that  I  cannot  make  ;"  so  with  a  heavy 
weight  upon  her  soul,  she  sat  down  resolving  to  keep  her 
own  counsel  and  abide  the  consequence,  whatever  it  might 
be. 

But  it  wore  upon  her  terribly — that  secret — and  though 
it  helped  in  a  measure  to  divert  her  mind  from  dwelling  too 
much  upon  her  daughter's  death,  it  haunted  her  continually, 
making  her  a  strange,  eccentric  woman,  whom  the  servants 
persisted  in  calling  crazy,  while  even  Madam  Conway  failed 
to  comprehend  her.  Her  face,  which  was  always  dark,  seemed 
to  have  acquired  a  darker,  harder  look,  while  her  eyes  wore  a 
wild  startled  expression,  as  if  she  were  constantly  followed 
by  some  tormenting  fear.  At  first,  Mrs.  Miller  objected  to 
trusting  her  with  the  babe  ;  but  when  Madam  Couway  sug 
gested  that  the  woman  who  had  charge  of  little  Theo 
should  also  take  care  of  Maggie,  she  fell  upon  hyr  knees 
and  begged  mo^t  piteously  that  the  child  might  not  be  taken 
from  her.  Every  thing  I  have  ever  loved  has  left  me,"  said 
ihe,  "  and  I  cannot  give  her  up." 

"  But  they  say  you  are  crazy,"  answered  Madam  Conway, 
somewhat  surprised  that  Hagar  should  manifest  so  mncb 


m  MAGGIE    MILLER. 

afl'cction  for  a  child  not  at  all  connected  to  her.     "  They 
say  you  are  crazy,  and  no  one  trusts  a  crazy  woman." 

Crazy!"  repeated  Hagar,  half  scornfully,  "crazy — 'tis 
not  craziness — 'tis  the.  trouble — the  trouble — that's  killing  me. 
But  I'll  hide  it  closer  than  it's  hidden  now,"  she  continued, 
"  If  you'll  let  her  stay  ;  and  'fore  Heaven,  I  swear,  that 
sooner  than  harm  one  hair  of  Maggie's  head,  I'd  part  with 
my  own  life  ;"  and  taking  the  sleeping  child  in  her  arms,  she 
stood  like  a  wild  beast  at  bay. 

Madam  Conway  did  not  herself  really  believe  in  Hagar's 
insanity.  She  had  heretofore  been  perfectly  faithful  to 
whatever  was  committed  to  her  care,  so  she  bade  her  be 
quiet,  saying  they  would  trust  her  for  a  time. 

"  It's  the  talking  to  myself,"  said  Hagar,  when  left  alone. 
"  It's  the  talking  to  myself,  which  makes  them  call  me 
crazy  ;  and  though  I  might  talk  to  many  a  worse  woman 
than  old  Hagar  Warren,  I'll  stop  it  ;  I'll  be  still  as  the 
grave,  and  when  next  they  gossip  about  me,  it  shall  be  of 
something  besides  my  craziness. 

So  Hagar  became  suddenly  silent,  and  uncommunicative, 
mingling  but  little  with  the  servants,  but  staying  all  day 
long  in  her  room,  where  she  watched  the  children  with  un 
tiring  care.  Especially  was  she  kind  to  Hester,  who  as 
time  passed  on,  proved  to  be  a  puny,  sickly  thing,  never 
noticing  any  one,  but  moaning  frequently  as  if  in  pain. 
Very  tenderly  old  Hagar  nursed  her,  carrying  her  often  in  her 
arms,  until  they  ached  from  very  weariness,  while  Madam 
Conway,  who  watched  her  with  a  vigilant  eye,  complained 
4ha,t  she  neglected  little  Maggie. 

"  And  what  if  I  do  ?"  returned  Hagar,  somewhat  bitterly, 
".Ain't  there  avast  difference  between  the  two?  S'pose 
E.ester  was  your  own  flesh  and  blood,  would  you  think  I 
could  do  too  much  for  the  poor  thing  ?"  And  she  glanced 


HESTER   AND   MAGGIE.  217 

compassionately  at  the  poor  wasted  form,  which  lay  upon 
her  lap,  gasping  for  breath,  and  presenting  a  striking  con 
trast  to  the  little  Maggie,  who,  in  her  cradle,  Avas  crowing 
and  laughing  in  childish  glee,  at  the  bright  firelight  which 
blazed  upon  the  hearth. 

Maggie  was  indeed  a  beautiful  child.  From  her  mother 
she  had  inherited  the  boon  of  perfect  health,  and  she  throve 
well  in  spite  of  the  bumped  heads  and  pinched  fingers, 
which  frequently  fell  to  her  lot,  when  Hagar  was  too  busy 
with  the  feeble  child  to  notice  her.  The  plaything  of  the 
whole  house,  she  was  greatly  petted  by  the  servants,  who 
vied  with  each  other  in  tracing  points  of  resemblance  be 
tween  her  and  the  Couways ;  while  the  grandmother 
prided  herself  particularly  on  the  arched  eyebrows,  and 
finely  cut  upper  lip,  which,  she  said,  were  sure  marks  of 
high  blood,  and  never  found  in  the  lower  ranks  !  With  a 
most  scornful  expression  on  her  face,  old  Hagar  would  lis 
ten  to  these  remarks,  and  then,  when  sure  that  no  one 
heard  her,  she  would  mutter,  "  Marks  of  blood !  What 
nonsense  !  I'm  almost  glad  I've  solved  the  riddle,  and 
know  'taint  Hood  that  makes  the  difference.  Just  tell  her 
the  truth  once,  anu  she'd  quickly  change  her  mind.  Hester's 
blue  pinch? j  nose,  which  makes  one  think  of  fits,  would  be 
the  very  essence  of  aristocracy,  while  Maggie's  lip  would 
come  of  the  little  Paddy  blood  there  is  running  in  her 
veins  1" 

"  And  still,  Madam  Conway  herself  was  not  one  half  so 
proud  of  the  bright,  playful  Maggie,  as  was  old  Hagar,  who, 
when  they  were  alone,  would  hug  her  to  her  bosom,  and 
gaze  fondly  on  her  fair,  round  face,  and  locks  of  silken  hair 
BO  like  those  now  resting  in  the  grave.  In  the  meantime 
Mrs.  Miller,  who,  since  her  daughter's  birth,  had  never  left 
ber  room,  was  growing  daily  weaker,  and  when  Maggie  was 

10 


MS  MAGGIE    FILLER. 

nearly  nine  months  old,  she  died,  with  the  little  one  folded 
to  her  bosom,  just  as  Hester  Hamilton  had  held  it,  when, 
Bhe,  too,  passed  from  earth. 

"  Doubly  blessed,"  whispered  old  Hagar,  who  was  present, 
and  then  when  she  remembered  that  to  poor  little  Hester  a 
mother's  blessing  would  never  be  given,  she  felt  that  her  load 
of  guilt  was  greater  than  she  could  bear.  "  She  will  perhaps 
forgive  me  if  I  confess  it  to  her  over  Miss  Margaret's  coffin," 
she  thought  ;  and  once  when  they  stood  together  by  the 
sleeping  dead,  and  Madam  Conway,  with  Maggie  in  her 
arms  was  bidding  the  child  kiss  the  clay  cold  lips  of  its  mo 
ther,  old  Hagar  attempted  to  tell  her.  "  Could  you  bear 
Miss  Margaret's  death  as  well,"  she  said,  "  if  Maggie,  instead 
of  being  bright  and  playful  as  she  is,  were  weak  and  sick, 
like  Hester  ?"  and  her  eyes  fastened  themselves  upon  Ma 
dam  Conway  with  an  agonizing  intensity  which  that  lady 
could  not  fathom.  "  Say,  would  you  bear  it  as  well — could 
you  love  her  as  much — would  you  change  with  me,  take 
Hester  for  your  own,  and  give  me  little  Maggie  ?"  she  per 
Bisted,  and  Madam  Couway,  surprised  at  her  excited  man 
ner,  which  she  attributed  in  a  measure  to  envy,  answered 
coldly.  "  Of  course  not.  Still,  if  God  had  seen  fit  to  give 
me  a  child  like  Hester,  I  should  try  to  be  reconciled,  but  I 
am  thankful  he  has  not  thus  dealt  with  me." 

"  'Tis  enough.  I  am  satisfied,"  thought  Hagar.  "  She 
would  not  thank  me  for  telling  her.  The  secret  shall  be 
kept ;"  and  half  exultingly  she  anticipated  the  pride  she 
should  feel  in  seeing  her  grand-daughter  grown  up  a  lady, 
and  an  heiress. 

Anon,  however,  there  came  stealing  over  her  a  feeling  of 
remorse,  as  she  reflected  that  the  child  defrauded  of  its  birth 
right  would,  if  it  lived,  be  compelled  to  serve  in  the  capacity 
of  a  servant  ;  and  many  a  night,  when  all  else  was  sileut  iu 


HESTER  AND   MAGGIE.  «1« 

the  old  stone  house,  she  paced  up  and  do\vu  the  room,  hci 
long  hair,  now  fast  turning  grey,  falling  over  her  shoulders, 
and  her  large  eyes  dimmed  with  tears,  as  she  thought  what 
ilia  future  woald  bring  to  the  infant  she  carried  in  her  arms. 
.But  the*evil  she  so  much  dreaded  never  came,  for  when  the 
winter  snows  were  again  falling,  they  made  a  little  grave 
beneath  the  same  piue  tree  where  Hester  Hamilton  lay 
sleeping,  and  while  they  dug  that  grave,  old  Hagar  sat  with 
folded  arms  and  tearless  eyes,  gazing  fixedly  upon  the  still, 
white  face,  and  thin  blue  lips,  which  would  never  again  be 
distorted  with  pain.  Her  habit  of  talking  to  herself  had 
returned,  and  as  she  sat  there,  she  would  at  intervals 
whisper,  "  poor  little  babe  1  I  would  willingly  have  cared 
for  you  all  my  life,  but  I  am  glad  you  are  gone  to  Miss  Mar 
garet,  who,  it  may  be,  will  wonder  what  little  thin-faced 
augel  is  calling  tier  mother  I  But  somebody'll  introduce  you, 
somebody '11  tell  her  who  you  are,  and  when  she  knows  how 
proud  her  mother  is  of  Maggie,  she'll  forgive  old  Hagar 
Warren  I" 

"  Gone  stark  mad  1"  was  the  report  carried  by  the  ser 
vants  to  their  mistress,  who  believed  the  story,  when  Hagar 
herself  came  to  her  with  the  request  that  Hester  might  be 
buried  in  some  of  Maggie's  clothes. 

Touched  with  pity  by  her  worn,  haggard  face,  Madam 
Conway  answered  ;  "  yes,  take  some  of  her  common  ones," 
uud  choosing  the  cambric  robe  which  Hester  had  worn  on 
the  oiorning  when  the  exchange  was  made,  Hagar  dressed 
the  body  for  the  grave.  When,  at  last,  everything  was 
ready  and  the  tiny  coffin  stood  upon  the  table,  Madam 
Conway  drew  near,  and  looked  for  a  moment  on  the  ema 
ciated  form  which  rested  quietly  from  all  its  pain.  Hover 
ing  at  her  side  was  Hagar,  and  feeling  it  her  duty  to  say  a 
word  of  comfort,  the  stately  lady  remarked,  that  "  'twa? 


220  MAGGIE    MILLER. 

best  the  babe  should  die  ;  that  were  it  her  grandchi/d,  sh« 
Bhould  feel  relieved  ;  for  had  it  lived,  it  would  undoubtedly 
have  been  physically  and  intellectually  feeble." 

"  Thank  you  1  I  am  considerably  comforted,"  was  the 
cool  reply  cf  Hagar,  who  felt  how  cruel  were  the  words,  and 
who  for  a  moment  was  strongly  tempted  to  claim  the  beauti 
ful  Maggie  as  her  own,  and  give  back  to  the  cold,  proud 
woman  the  senseless  clay,  on  which  she  looked  so  calmly. 

But  love  for  her  grandchild  conquered.  There  was 
nothing  in  the  way  of  her  advancement  now,  and  when  at 
the  grave  she  knelt  her  down  to  weep,  as  the  bystanders  • 
thought,  over  her  dead,  she  was  breathing  there  a  vow  that 
never  so  long  as  she  lived  should  the  secret  of  Maggie's 
birth  be  given  to  the  world,  unless  some  circumstance  then 
unforeseen  should  make  it  absolutely  and  unavoidably  neces 
sary.  To  see  Maggie  grow  up  into  a  beautiful,  refined  and 
cultivated  woman,  was  now  the  great  object  of  Hagar's  life  ; 
and  fearing  lest  by  some  inadvertent  word  or  action  the 
secret  should  be  disclosed,  she  wished  to  live  by  herself, 
where  naught  but  the  winds  of  heaven  could  listen  to  her 
incoherent  whisperings,  which  made  her  fellow  servants 
accuse  her  of  insanity. 

Down  in  the  deepest  shadow  of  the  woods,  and  distant 
from  the  old  stone  house  nearly  a  mile,  was  a  half-ruined 
cottage  which,  years  before,  had  been  occupied  by  miners, 
who  had  dug  in  the  hillside  for  particles  of  yellow  ore,  which 
they  fancied  to  be  gold.  Long  and  frequent  were  the  night 
revels  said  to  have  been  held  in  the  old  hut,  which  had  at  last 
fallen  into  bad  repute  and  been  for  years  deserted.  To  one 
like  Hagar,  however,  there  was  nothing  intimidating  in  its 
creaking  old  floors,  its  rattling  windows  and  noisome  chim 
ney,  where  the  bats  and  the  swallows  built  their  nests  ;  and 
when,  one  day,  Madam  Conway  proposed  giving  little  Mag 


HESTER   AND   MAGGIE.  22 

gie  into  the  charge  of  a  younger  and  less  nervous  person  than 
herself,  she  made  no  objection,  but  surprised  her  mistress  by 
asking  permission  to  live  by  herself  in  the  "  cottage  by  the 
mine  "  as  it  was  called. 

"  It  is  better  for  me  to  be  alone,"  said  she,  "  for  I  maj 
do  something  terrible  if  I  stay  here,  something  I  would 
sooner  die  than  do,"  and  her  eyes  fell  upon  Maggie  sleeping 
in  her  cradle. 

This  satisfied  Madam  Conway  that  the  half  crazed  woman 
meditated  harm  to  her  favorite  grandchild,  and  she  con 
sented  readily  to  her  removal  to  the  cottage,  which  by  hrr 
orders  was  made  comparatively  comfortable.  For  several 
weeks,  when  she  came,  as  she  did  each  day  to  the  house,  Mad 
am  Conway  kept  Maggie  carefully  from  her  sight,  until  at 
last  she  begged  so  hard  to  see  her,  that  her  wish  was  grati 
fied  ;  and  as  she  manifested  no  disposition  whatever  to  molest 
the  child,  Madam  Conway's  fears  gradually  subsided,  and 
Jlagar  was  permitted  to  fondle  and  caress  her  as  often  as 
she  chose. 

Here,  now,  for  a  time,  we  leave  them  ;  Hagar  in  her 
cottage  by  the  mine  ;  Madam  Conway  in  her  gloomy  home  ; 
Maggie  in  her  nurse's  arms  ;  and  Theo,  of  whom  as  yet  but 
little  has  been  said,  playing  on  the  nursery  floor  ;  while 
with  our  readers  we  pass  silently  over  a  period  of  time  which 
shall  bring  us  to  Maggie's  girlhood. 


221  MAGGIE    MILLER. 


CHAPTER    IV. 

GIRLHOOD. 

FIFTEEN  years  have  passed  away,  and  around  the  old  stone 
house  there  is  outwardly  no  change.  The  moss  Still  clinga 
to  the  damp,  dark  wall,  just  as  it  clung  there  long  ago,  while 
the  swaying  branches  of  the  forest  trees  still  cast  their 
shadows  across  the  floor,  or  scream  to  the  autumn  blast,  just 
as  they  did  in  years  gone  by,  when  Hagwr  Warren  breathed 
that  prayer,  "  Lead  us  not  into  temptation."  Madam  Con- 
way,  stiff  and  straight  and  cold  as  ever,  moves  with  the 
same  measured  tread  through  her  gloomy  rooms,  which  are 
not  as  noiseless  now  as  they  were  wont  to  be,  for  girlhood, 
joyous,  merry  girlhood,  has  a  home  in  those  dark  rooms,  and 
their  silence  is  broken  by  the  sound  of  other  feet,  not  mov 
ing  stealthily  and  slow,  as  if  following  in  a  funeral  train,  but 
dancing  down  the  stairs,  tripping  through  the  halls,  skip 
ping  across  the  floor,  and  bounding  over  the  grass,  they  go, 
never  tiring,  never  ceasing,  till  the  birds  and  the  sun  have 
gone  to  rest. 

And  do  what  she  may,  the  good  lady  cannot  check  the 
gleeful  mirth,  or  hush  the  clear  ringing  laughter  of  one  at 
least  of  the  fair  maidens,  who,  since  last  we  looked  upon 
them,  have  grown  up  to  womanhood.  Wondrously  beauti 
ful  is  Maggie  Miller  now,  with  her  bright  sunny  face,  her 
soft,  dark  eyes  and  raven  hair,  so  glossy  and  smooth,  that 


GIRLHOOD.  223 

her  sister,  the  p?k  f«*  .f*J,  blue-eyed  Theo,  likens  it  to  a  piece 
of  shining  patin.  Now,  as  ever,  the  pet  and  darling  of  the 
household,  she  moves  amoag  them  like  a  raj  of  sunshine  ; 
and  the  servants,  when  they  hear  her  bird-like  voice  waking 
the  echoes  of  the  weird  old  place,  pause  in  their  work  to 
listen,  blessing  Miss  Margaret  for  the  joy  and  gladness  her 
presence  has  brought  to  them. 

Old  Hagar,  in  her  cottage  by  the  mine,  has  kept  her 
secret  well,  whispering  it  only  to  the  rushing  wind  and  the 
running  brook,  which  have  told  no  tales  to  the  gay,  light- 
hearted  girl,  save  to  murniur  in  her  ear  that  a  life,  untram- 
meled  by  etiquette  and  form,  would  be  a  blissful  life  indeed. 
And  Maggie,  listening  to  the  voices  which  speak  to  her  so 
oft  in  the  autumn  wind,  the  running  brook,  the  opening 
flower  and  the  falling  leaf,  has  learned  a  lesson  different  far 
from  those  taught  her  daily  by  the  prim,  stiff  governess,  who, 
imported  from  England  six  years  ago,  has  drilled  both  Theo 
and  Maggie,  in  all  the  prescribed  rules  of  high-life  as  prac 
tised  in  the  old  world.  She  has  taught  them  how  to  sit  and 
how  to  stand,  how  to  eat  and  how  to  drink,  as  became  young 
ladies  of  Conway  blood  and  birth.  And  Madam  Conway, 
through  her  golden  spectacles,  looks  each  day  to  see  some 
good,  from  all  this  teaching,  come  to  the  bold,  dashing, 
untamable  Maggie,  who,  spurning  alike  both  birth  and  blood, 
laughs  at  form  and  etiquette  as  taught  by  Mrs.  Jeffrey,  and 
winding  her  arms  around  her  grandmother's  neck,  crumples 
her  rich  lace  ruffle  with  a  most  unladyltte  hug,  and  then 
bounds  away  to  the  stables,  pretending  not  to  hear  the  dis 
tressed  Mrs.  Jeffrey  calling  after  her  "  not  to  run,  'twas  so 
Yankeefied  and  vulgar  ;"  or  if  she  did  hear,  answering  back, 
"  I  am  a  Yankee,  native  born,  and  shall  run  for  all  Johnny 
Bull." 

Greatly  horrified  at  this  evidence  of  total  depravity,  Mrs 


S24  MAGGIE    MILLER. 

Jeffrey  brushes  down  her  black  silk  apron  and  goes  back  to 
Theo,  her  more  tractable  pupil  ;  while  Maggie,  emerging 
ere  long  from  the  stable,  clears  the  fence  with  one  leap  of 
her  high-mettled  pony,  which  John,  the  coachman,  had 
bought  at  an  enormous  price,  of  a  travelling  circus,  on  pur<> 
pose  for  his  young  mistress,  who  complained  that  "grand 
ma's  horses  were  all  too  lazy  and  aristocratic  in  their  move 
ments  for  her." 

In  perfect  amazement  Madam  Con  way  looked  out  when 
first  "  Gritty,"  as  the  pony  was  called,  was  led  up  to  tho 
door,  prancing,  pawing,  chafing  at  the  bit  and  impatient 
to  be  off.  "  Margaret  should  never  mount  that  animal," 
she  said  ;  but  Margaret  had  ruled  for  sixteen  years,  and 
now,  at  a  sign  from  John,  she  sprang  gaily  upon  the  back  of 
the  fiery  steed,  who,  feeling  instinctively  that  the  rider  he 
carried  \*as  a  stranger  to  fear,  became  under  her  training 
perfectly  gentle,  obeying  her  slightest  command,  and  follow 
ing  her  ere  long  like  a  sagacious  dog.  Not  thus  easily 
could  Madam  Conway  manage  Maggie,  and  with  a  groan 
she  saw  her  each  day  fly  over  the  garden  gate,  and  out  into 
the  woods,  which  she  scoured  in  all  directions. 

"  She'll  break  her  neck,  I  know,"  the  disturbed  old  lady 
would  say,  as  Maggie's  flowing  skirt  and  waving  plumes  dis 
appeared  in  the  shadow  of  the  trees.  "  She'll  break  her 
neck  some  day  ;"  and  thinking  some  one  must  be  in  fault, 
her  eyes  would  turn  reprovingly  upon  Mrs.  Jeffrey  for 
having  failed  in  subduing  Maggie,  whom  the  old  governess 
pronounced  the  "  veriest  mad-cap  in  the  world  ;  there  waa 
nothing  like  her  in  all  England,"  she  said,  "and  her  low  bred 
ways  must  be  the  result  of  her  having  been  born  on  Ameri 
can  soil." 

If  Maggie  was  to  be  censured,  Ma  Jam  Conway  chose  to 
do  it  herself,  and  on  such  occasions  she  would  answer, 
"Low-bred,  Mrs.  Jeffrey,  is  not  a  proper  term  to  apply  to 


GIRLHOOD.  221 

Margai  3t.  She's  a  little  wild,  I  admit,  but  no  one  with  my 
blood  in  their  veins  can  be  low-bred-  ;"  and  in  her  indigna 
tion  at  the  governess,  Madam  would  usually  forget  to 
reprove  her  grand-daughter  when  she  came  back  from  her 
ride,  her  cheeks  flushed  and  her  eyes  shiniug  like  stars  with 
the  healthful  exercise.  Throwing  herself  upon  a  stool  at 
her  grandmother's  feet,  Maggie  would  lay  her  head  upon 
the  lap  of  the  proud  lady,  who,  very  lovingly  would  smooth 
the  soft  shining  hair,  "  so  much  like  her  own,"  she  said. 

"  Before  you  had  to  color  it,  you  mean,  don't  you,  grand' 
ma  ?"  the  mischievous  Maggie  would  rejoin,  looking  up 
archly  to  her  grandmother,  who  would  call  her  a  saucy 
child,  and  stroke  still  more  fondly  the  silken  locks. 

Wholly  unlike  Maggie  was  Theo,  a  pale-faced,  fair-haired 
girl,  who  was  called  pretty,  when  not  overshadowed  by  the 
queenly  presence  of  her  more  gifted  sister.  And  Theo  was 
very  proud  of  this  sister,  too  ;  proud  of  the  beautiful  Mag 
gie,  to  whom,  though  two  years  her  junior,  she  looked  for 
counsel,  willing  always  to  abide  by  her  judgment  ;  for  what 
Maggie  did  must  of  course  be  right,  and  grandma  would  not 
scold.  So  if  at  any  time  Theo  was  led  into  error,  Maggie 
stood  ready  to  bear  the  blame,  which  was  never  very  severe, 
for  Mrs.  Jeffrey  had  learned  not  to  censure  her  too  much, 
lest  by  so  doing  she  should  incur  the'  displeasure  of  her 
employer,  who  in  turn  loved  Maggie,  if  it  were  possible, 
better  than  the  daughter  whose  name  she  bore,  and  whom 
Maggie  called  her  mother.  Well  kept  and  beautiful  was  the 
spot  where  that  mother  lay,  and  the  grave  was  marked  by  a 
costly  marble,  which  gleamed  clear  and  white  through  the 
Eurrounding  evergreens.  This  was  Maggie's  favorite  resort, 
and  here  she  often  sat  in  the  moonlight,  musing  of  one  who 
slept  there,  and  who,  they  said,  had  held  her  on  her  bosom 
when  she  died. 

10* 


226  MAGGIE    MILLER. 

At  no  great  distance  from  this  spot,  was  another  grnre 
where  the  grass  grew  tall  and  green,  and  where  the  head- 
Btoue,  half  sunken  in  the  earth,  betokened  that  she  who 
rested  there  was  of  humble  origin.  Here  Maggie  seldom 
tarried  long.  The  place  had  no  attraction  for  her,  for  rarely 
now  was  the  name  of  Hester  Hamilton  heard  at  the  old 
stone  house,  and  all,  save  one,  seemed  to  have  forgotten 
that  such  as  she  had  ever  lived.  This  was  Hagar  Warren, 
who  in  her  cottage  by  the  mine  has  grown  older,  and  more 
crazy -like  since  last  we  saw  her.  Her  hair,  once  so  much 
like  that  which  Madame  Con  way  likens  to  her  own,  has 
bleached  as  white  as  snow,  and  her  tall  form  is  shrivelled 
now,  and  bent.  The  secret  is  wearing  her  life  away,  and  yet 
she  does  not  regret  what  she  has  done.  She  cannot,  when 
she  looks  upon  the  beautiful  girl,  who  comes  each  day  to 
her  lonely  hut,  and  whom  she  worships  with  a  species  of 
wild  idolatry.  Maggie  knows  not  why  it  is,  and  yet  to  hef 
there  is  a  peculiar  fascination  about  that  strange  old  woman, 
with  her  snow-white  hair,  her  wrinkled  face,  her  bony  hand, 
and  wild,  dark  eyes,  which,  when  they  rest  on  her,  have  in 
them  a  look  of  unutterable  tenderness. 

Regularly  each  day  when  the  sun  nears  the  western  hori 
zon,  Maggie  steals  away  to  the  cottage,  and  the  lonely 
woman,  waiting  for  her  on  the  rude  bench  by  the  door,  can 
tell  her  bounding  footstep  from  all  others  which  pass  that 
way.  She  does  not  say  much  now,  herself  ;  but  the  sound 
of  Maggie's  voice,  talking  to  her  in  the  gathering  twilight, 
is  the  sweetest  she  has  ever  heard,  and  so  she  sits  and  lis 
tens,  while  her  hands  work  nervously  together,  and  her 
whole  body  trembles  with  the  longing,  intense  desire  she 
feels,  to  clasp  the  young  girl  to  her  bosom,  and  claim  her  as 
hor  own.  But  this  she  dare  not  do,  for  Madame  Conway's 
training  has  had  its  effect,  and  in  Maggie's  bearing  there  n 


GIRLEOOD.  '2<:1 

ever  a  degree  of  pride  which  forbids  anything  like  aacfue 
familiarity.  And  it  was  this  very  pride  which  llagar  liked 
to  see,  whispering  often  to  herself,  "  Warren  blood  and 
Conway  airs — the  two  go  well  together." 

Sometimes  a  word  or  a  look,  would  make  her  start,  they 
reminded  her  so  forcibly  of  the  dead  ;  and  once  she  said 
involuntarily.  "  You  are  like  your  mother,  Maggie. 
"Exactly  what  she  was  at  your  age." 

"My  mother  I"  answered  Maggie.  You  never  talked  to 
me  of  her.  Tell  me  of  her  now,  I  did  not  suppose  I  wrs 
like  her,  in  anything." 

"Yes,  in  everything,"  said  old  Hagar,  "the  same  daik 
eyes  and  hair,  the  same  bright  red  cheeks,  the  same — " 

"  Why  Hagar,  what  can  you  mean  ?"  interrupted  Maggie. 
"  My  mother  had  light  blue  eyes  and  fair  brown  hair,  like 
Theo.  Grandma  says  I  am  not  like  her  at  all,  while  old 
Hannah,  the  cook,  when  she  feels  ill-natured,  and  wishes  to 
tease  me,  says  I  am  the  very  image  of  Hester  Hamilton." 

"  And  what  if  you  are  ?  What  if  you  are  ?"  eagerly  re 
joined  old  Hagar.  "  Would  you  feel  badly,  to  know  you 
looked  like  Hester  ?"  and  the  old  woman  bent  anxiously 
forward,  to  hear  the  answer,  "  Not  for  myself,  perhaps,  pro 
vided  Hester  was  handsome,  for  I  think  a  good  deal  of 
beauty,  that's  a  fact ;  but  it  would  annoy  grandma  terribly  to 
have  me  look  like  a  servant.  She  might  fancy  I  was  Hester's 
daughter,  for  she  wonders  every  day  where  I  get  my  low 
bred  ways,  as  she  calls  my  liking  to  sing  and  laugh,  and  be 
natural." 

"  And  s'posin'  Hester  was  your  mother,  would  you  care  ?" 
persisted  Hagar. 

"  Of  course  I  should,"  answered  Maggie,  her  large  eyea 
opening  wide  at  the  strange  question.  "  I  wouldn't  for  the 
whole  world  be  anybody  but  Maggie  Miller,  just  who  I  am 


j  28  MAGGIE    MILLER. 

•> 

To  be  sure  I  get  awfully  out  of  patience  with  grandma,  and 
Mrs.  Jeffrey,  for  talking  so  much  about  birth  and  Hood  and 
family,  and  all  that  sort  of  nonsense,  but  after  all,  I  wouldn't 
for  anything  be  poor  and  work  as  poor  folks  do." 

"  I'll  never  tell  her,  never,"  muttered  Hagar  ;  and  Maggie 
continued  :  "  What  a  queer  habit  you  have  of  talking  to 
rourself.  Did  you  always  do  so  ?" 

"Not  always.  It  came  upon  me  with  the  secret,"  Hagar 
answered  inadvertently  ;  and  eagerly  catching  at  the  last 
word,  which  to  her  implied  a  world  of  romance  and  mystery> 
Maggie  exclaimed,  "  The  secret,  Hagar,  the  secret !  If  there's 
anything  I  delight  in,  it's  a  secret !"  and  sliding  down  from 
the  rude  bench  to  the  grass  plat  at  Hagar's  feet,  she  contin 
ued  :  Tell  it  to  me,  Hagar,  that's  a  dear  old  woman. 
I'll  never  tell  anybody  as  long  as  I  live.  I  won't  upon  my 
word,"  she  continued,  as  she  saw  the  look  of  horror  rest 
ing  on  Hagar's  face  ;  "  I'll  help  you  to  keep  it,  and  we'll 
have  such  grand  times  talking  it  over.  Did  it  concern  your- 
Belf  ?"  and  Maggie  folded  her  arms  upon  the  lap  of  the  old 
woman,  who  answered  in  a  voice  so  hoarse  and  unnatural 
that  Maggie  involuntarily  shuddered,  "  Old  Hagar  would 
die  inch  by  inch  sooner  than  tell  you,  Maggie  Miller,  her 
secret." 

"  Was  it  then  so  dreadful  ?"  asked,  Maggie  half  fearfully, 
and  casting  a  stealthy  glance  at  the  dim  woods,  where  the 
uight  shadows  were  falling,  and  whose  winding  path  she 
must  tiavcrse  alone,  on  her  homeward  route.  "Was  it 
then  so  dreadful  ?" 

"Yes,  dreadful,  dreadful ;  and  yet,  Maggie,  I  have  some* 
times  wished  you  knew  it.  You  would  forgive  me,  perhaps, 
if  you  knew  how  I  was  tempted,"  said  Hagar,  a,nd  her  voice 
was  full  of  yearning  tenderness,  while  her  bony  fingers 
parted  lovingly  the  shining  hair  from  off  the  white  tvwv 


GIRLHOOD.  229 

of  the    young   girl,    who   plead   again,    "Tell    it    to    me, 
Hagar." 

There  was  a  fierce  struggle  in  Hagar's  bosom,  but  the 
flight  wind,  moving  through  the  hemlock  boughs,  seemed 
to  say,  "  Not  yet — not  yet,"  and  remembering  her  vow, 
5ln  answered .  "  Leave  me,  Maggie  Miller,  I  cannot  tell  you 
the  secret.  You  of  all  others.  You  would  hate  me  for  it,, 
and  that  I  could  not  bear.  Leave  me  alone,  or  the  sight  of 
you,  so  beautiful,  pleading  for  my  secret,  will  kill  me  dead." 

There  was  command  in  the  tones  of  her  voice,  and  rising 
to  her  feet,  Maggie  walked  away,  with  a  dread  feeling  at  her 
heart,  a  feeling  which  whispered  vaguely  to  her  of  a  deed  of 
Hood ;  for  what,  save  this,  could  thus  affect  old  Hagar  ? — 
Her  road  home  led  near  the  little  burying-grouud,  and 
impelled  by  something  she  could  not  resist,  she  paused  at 
her  mother's  grave.  The  moonlight  was  falling  softly  upon 
it,  and  seating  herself  within  the  shadow  of  the  monument, 
she  sat  a  long  time,  thinking,  not  of  the  dead,  but  of  Hagar 
and  the  strange  words  she  had  uttered.  Suddenly,  from 
the  opposite  side  of  the  graveyard,  there  came  a  sound 
as  of  some  one  walking,  and  looking  up,  Maggie  saw- 
approaching  her  the  bent  figure  of  the  old  woman,  who 
seemed  unusually  excited.  Her  first  impulse  was  to  fly,  but 
knowing  how  improbable  it  was  that  Hagar  should  seek  to 
do  her  harm,  and  thinking  sne  might  discover  some  clue  to 
the  mystery,  if  she  remained,  she  sat  still,  while  kneeling  on 
Hester's  grave,  old  Hagar  wept  bitterly,  talking  the  while, 
but  so  incoherently  that  Maggie  could  distinguish  nothing, 
lave  the  words,  "  You,  Hester,  have  forgiven  me." 

'  Can  it  be  that  she  has  killed  her  own  child  !"  thought 
Mag,  and  starting  to  her  feet  she  stood  face  to  face  with 
Hagar,  who  screamed,  "  You  here,  Maggie  Miller  !  Here 
with  the  others  who  know  my  secret.  But  you  shan't  wring 


230  MAGGIE    MILLER. 

»t  from  me.  You  shall  never  know  it,  unless  the  dead  rise 
up  to  tell  you." 

"  Hagar  Warren,"  said  Margaret  sternly,  "  is  murder 
your  secret  ?  Did  Hester  Hamilton  die  at  her  mother's 
bands  F 

With  a  short  gasping  moan,  Hagar  staggered  backward 
a  pace  or  two,  and  then  standing  far  more  erect  than  Mar 
garet  had  ever  seen  her  before,  she  answered,  "  No,  Maggie 
Miller,  no  ;  murder  is  not  my  secret.  These  hands,"  and  she 
tossed  in  the  air  her  shrivelled  arms,  "  these  hands  are  as 
free  from  blood  as  yours.  And  now  go.  Leave  me  alone 
with  my  dead,  and  see  that  you  tell  no  tales.  You  like 
secrets,  you  say.  Let  what  you  have  heard  to-night,  be  your 
secret.  Go." 

Maggie  obeyed,  and  walked  slowly  homeward,  feeling 
greatly  relieved  that  her  suspicion  was  false,  and  experi 
encing  a  degree  of  satisfaction  in  thinking  that  she,  too,  had 
a  secret,  which  she  would  guard  most  carefully  from  her 
g-andmother  and  Theo.  "  She  would  never  tell  them  what 
she  had  seen  and  heard — never  !" 

Seated  upon  the  piazza  was  Madam  Couway  and  Theo, 
the  former  of  whom  eluded  her  for  staying  so  late  at  the 
cottage,  while  Theo  asked  what  queer  things  the  old  witch- 
woman  had  said  to-night. 

With  a  very  expressive  look,  which  seemed  to  say,  "  I 
know,  but  I  shan't  tell,"  Maggie  seated  herself  at  her  grand 
mother's  feet,  and  asked,  "  how  long  Hagar  had  been  crazy  ? 
Bid  it  come  upon  her  when  her  daughter  died  ?"  she  in 
;juired  ;  and  Madam  Conway  answered,  "yes,  about  that 
time,  or  more  particularly  when  the  baby  died.  Then  she 
began  to  act  so  strangely  that  I  removed  you  from  her  care, 
for,  from  something  she  said,  I  fancied  she  meditated  harm 
to  you." 


GIRLHOOD.  281 

For  a  moment  Maggie  sat  wrapt  in  thought — then  clap 
ping  her  hands  together,  she  exclaimed--"  I  have  it  ;  I  know 
now  what  ails  her.  She  felt  so  badly  to  see  you  happy  with 
me,  that  she  tried  to  poison  me.  She  said  she  was  sorely 
tempted — and  that's  the  secret  which  is  killing  her." 

"  Secret  !  What  secret  ?"  cried  Theo  ;  and  womanlike, 
forgetting  her  resolution  not  to  tell,  Mag  told  what  she  had 
seen  and  heard,  adding  as  her  firm  belief  that  Hagar  had 
made  an  attempt  upon  her  life. 

"  I  would  advise  you  for  the  future  to  keep  away  from 
her,  then,"  said  Madam  Conway,  to  whom  the  suggestion 
seemed  a  very  probable  one. 

But  Maggie  knew  full  well  that  whatever  Hagar  might 
ouce  have  thought  to  do,  there  was  no  danger  to  be  appre 
hended  from  her  now,  and  the  next  day  found  her  as  usual 
on  her  way  to  the  cottage.  Bounding  into  the  room  where 
the  old  woman  sat  at  her  knitting,  she  exclaimed,  "  I  know 
what  it  is  I  I  know  your  secret !" 

There  was  a  gathering  mist  before  Hagar's  eyes,  and  her 
face  was  deathly  white,  as  she  gasped,  "You  know  the  se 
cret  1  H'jw?  where?  Have  the  dead  come  back  to  tell? 
Did  any  ^rdy  «ce  me  do  it  ?" 

"  Why,  no,"  answered  Mag,  beginning  again  to  grow  a 
little  mystified.  "  The  dead  have  nothing  to  do  with  it. 
You  tried  to  poison  me  when  I  was  a  baby,  and  that's  what 
makes  you  crazy.  Isn't  it  so  ?  Grandma  thought  it  was, 
when  1  told  her  how  you  talked  last  night." 

There  was  a  heavy  load  lifted  from  Hagar's  heart,  and 
she  answered  calmly,  but  somewhat  indignantly,  "  So  you 
told — I  thought  I  could  trust  you,  Maggie." 

Instantly  the  tears  came  to  Maggie's  eyes,  and,  coloring 
crimson,  she  f,;ud :  "I  didn't  mean  to  tell — indeed  I  didn't, 
but  I  forgot  j.ll  about  your  charge.  Forgive  me,  llugui; 


232  MAGGIE    MILLER. 

do,"  at.d,  sinking  on  the  floor,  she  looked  up  in  Hagar's  fa<« 
BO  pleadingly  that  the  old  woman  was  softened,  and  ans 
wered  gently,  "  You  are  like  the  rest  of  your  sex,  Marga 
ret.  No  woman  but  Hagar  Warren  ever  kept  a  secret ; 
and  it's  killing  her,  you  see." 

"  Don't  keep  it  then,"  said  Mag.  "  Tell  it  to  me.  Confess 
that  you  tried  to  poison  me  because  you  envied  grandma," 
and  the  soft  eyes  looked  with  an  anxious,  expectant  express 
ion  into  the  dark,  wild  orbs  of  Hagar,  who  replied,  "  Envy 
was  at  the  bottom  of  it  all,  but  I  never  tried  to  harm  you. 
Margaret,  in  any  way.  I  only  thought  to  do  you  good. 
You  have  not  guessed  it.  You  cannot,  and  you  must  not 
try." 

"  Tell  it  to  me  then.  I  want  to  know  it  so  badly,"  per 
sisted  Mag,  her  curiosity  each  moment  increasing. 

"  Maggie  Miller,"  said  old  Hagar,  and  the  knitting  drop 
ped  from  her  fingers,  which  moved  slowly  on  till  they 
reached  and  touched  the  little  snow-flake  of  a  hand,  resting 
on  her  knee  ;  "  Maggie  Miller,  if  you  knew  that  the  telling  of 
that  secret  would  make  you  perfectly  wretched,  would  you 
wish  to  hear  it  ?" 

For  a  moment  Mag  was  silent,  and  then,  half  laughingly, 
she  replied,  "  I'd  risk  it,  Hagar,  for  I  never  wanted  to  know 
anything  half  so  bad  in  all  my  life.  Tell  it  to  me,  won't 
you  ?'' 

Very  beautiful  looked  Maggie  Miller  then.  Her  straw 
flat  sat  jauntily  on  one  side  of  her  head,  her  glossy  hair 
combed  smoothly  back,  her  soft  lustrous  eyes  shining  with 
eager  curiosity,  and  her  cheeks  flushed  with  excitement. 
Very,  very  beautiful  she  seemed  to  the  old  woman,  who,  in 
her  intense  longing  to  take  the  bright  creature  to  her  bosom, 
was,  for  an  instant  sorely  tempted. 

"  Margaret  /"  she  began,  and  at  the  sound  of  her  voi-30 


GIRLHOOD.  2,°S 

the  young  girl  shuddered  involuntarily.  "  Margaret  1"  she 
said  again,  but  ere  another  word  was  uttered,  the  autumn 
wind,  which  for  the  last  half  hour  had  been  rising  rapidly, 
came  roaring  down  the  wide-mouthed  chimney,  and  the 
heavy  fireboard  fell  upon  the  floor  with  a  tremendous  crash, 
nearly  crushing  old  Hagar's  foot,  and  driving  for  a  time  all 
thoughts  of  the  secret  from  Maggie's  mind.  "  Served  me 
right,"  muttered  Hagar,  as  Maggie  left  the  room  for  water 
with  which  to  bathe  the  swollen  foot.  "  Served  me  right,  and 
if  ever  I'm  tempted  to  tell  her  again  may  every  bone  in  my 
body  be  smashed  1" 

The  foot  was  carefully  cared  for.  Maggie's  own  hands 
tenderly  bandaging  it  up,  and  then  with  redoubled  zeal  she 
returned  to  the  attack,  pressing  old  Hagar  so  hard  that  the 
large  drops  of  perspiration  gathered  thickly  about  her  fore 
head  and  lips,  which  were  white  as  ashes.  Wearied  at  last, 
Mag  gave  it  up  for  the  time  being,  but  her  curiosity  was 
thoroughly  aroused,  and  for  many  days  she  persisted  in  her 
importunity,  until  at  last,  in  self  defence,  old  Hagar,  when 
she  saw  her  coming,  would  steal  away  to  the  low  roofed 
chamber,  and  hiding  behind  a  pile  of  rubbish,  would  listen 
breathlessly,  while  Margaret  hunted  for  her  in  vain.  Then 
when  she  was  gone,  she  would  crawl  out  from  her  hiding- 
place,  covered  with  cobwebs  and  dust,  and  muttering  to 
herself,  "  I  never  expected  this,  and  it's  more  than  I  can 
bear.  Why  will  she  torment  me  so,  when  a  knowledge  of 
the  secret  would  drive  her  mad  !" 

This,  however,  Maggie  Miller  did  not  know.  Blessed 
with  an  uncommon  degree  of  curiosity,  which  increased  each 
time  she  saw  old  Hagar,  she  resolved  to  solve  the  mystery, 
which  she  felt  sure  was  connected  with  herself,  though  in 
what  manner,  she  could  not  guess.  "But  I  will  know," 
she  would  say  to  herself,  when  returning  from  a  fruitless 


234  MA.GGIE    MILLER. 

quizzing  of  old  Hagar,  whose  hiding-place  she  had  at  last 
discovered  ;  "  I  will  know  what  ;tis  about  rne.  I  Bhali 
never  be  quilt  happy  till  I  do." 

Ah,  Maggie,  Maggie,  be  happy  while  you  can,  and  leave 
the  secret  alone.  It  will  come  to  you  soon  enough — aye, 
won  enough. 


TRIFLES.  285 


CHAPTER    V. 

TRIFLES. 

VERT  rapidly  the  winter  passed  away,  and  one  morning, 
early  in  March,  Mag  went  down  to  the  cottage  with  the 
news  that  Madam  Conway  was  intending  to  start  immedi 
ately  for  England,  where  she  had  business  which  would 
probably  detain  her  until  fall. 

"  Oh,  won't  I  have  fun  in  her  absence  1"  she  cried.  "  I'll 
visit  every  family  in  the  neighborhood.  Here  she's  kept 
Theo  and  me,  caged  up  like  two  wild  animals,  and  now  I 
am  going  to  see  a  little  of  the  world.  I  don't  mean  to 
study  a  bit,  and  instead  of  visiting  you  once  a  day,  I  shall 
come  at  least  three,  times." 

"  The  Lord  help  me  1"  ejaculated  old  Hagar,  who,  much 
as  she  loved  Maggie,  was  beginning  to  dread  her  daily 
visits." 

"  Why,  do  you  want  help  ?"  asked  Maggie,  laughingly. 
"  Are  you  tired  of  me,  Hagar  ?  Don't  you  like  me  any 
more  ?" 

"  Li/ce  you,  Maggie  Miller  !  like  you,"  repeated  old  Ilagar. 
and  iu  the  tones  of  her  voice  there  was  a  world  of  tender 
ness  and  love.  "There  is  nothing  on  earth- 1  love  as  I  do 
you  But  you  worry  me  to  death  sometimes." 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  know,"  answered  Mag  ;  '  but  I'm  not  going 
to  tease  you  awhile.  I  shall  have  so  much  else  to  do  when 
grandma  is  gone,  that  I  shall  forget  it.  I  wish  she  wasn't 


186  MAGGIE    MILLER. 

BO  proud,"  she  continued,  after  a  moment.  "  I  wish  she'd 
let  Theo  and  me  see  a  little  more  of  the  world  than  she 
does.  I  wonder  how  she  ever  expects  us  to  get  married,  or 
be  anybody,  if  she  keeps  us  hero  in  the  woods  like  two 
young  savages.  Why,  as  true  as  you  live,  Hagar,  I  have 
never  been  anywhere  in  my  life,  except  to  church  Sundays, 
once  to  Douglas's  store,  in  Worcester,  once  to  Patty  Thomp 
son's  funeral,  and  once  to  a  Methodist  camp-meeting  ;  and 
I  never  spoke  to  more  than  a  dozen  men  besides  the  minister 
and  the  school-boys.  It's  too  bad  !"  and  Maggie  pouted 
quite  becomingly  at  the  injustice  done  her  by  her  grand 
mother  in  keeping  her  thus  secluded.  "  Theo  don't  care," 
she  said.  "  She  is  prouder  than  I  am,  and  does  not  wish  to 
know  the  Yankees,  as  grandma  calls  the  folks  in  this  country  ; 
but  I'm  glad  I  am  a  Yankee.  7.  wouldn't  live  in  England 
for  anything." 

"  Why  don't  your  gr?'  Another  take  you  with  her  ?" 
asked  Hagar,  who  in  r  measure  sympathized  with  Maggie 
for  being  thus  isolated. 

"  She  says  we  are  too  young  to  go  into  society,"  answered 
Mag.  "  It  will  be  time  enough  two  years  hence,  when  I'm 
eighteen  and  Theo  twenty.  Then  I  believe  she  intends  tak 
ing  us  to  London,  where  we  can  show  off  qur  accomplish 
ments,  and  practise  that  wonderful  courtesy  which  Mrs. 
Jeffrey  has  taught  us.  I  daresay  the  queen  will  be  aston 
ished  at  our  qualifications  ;"  and  with  a  merry  laugh,  as  she 
thought  of  the  appearance  she  should  make  at  the  Court  ;f 
St.  James,  Mag  leaped  on  Gritty's  back  and  bounded  away, 
while  llagar  looked  wistfully  after  her,  saying  as  she  viped 
the  tears  from  her  eyes,  "  Heaven  bless  the  girl  !  She 
might  sit  on  the  throne  of  England  any  day,  and  Victoria 
wouldn't  disgrace  herself  at  all  by  doing  her  reverence,  even 
if  she  be  a  child  of  Hagar  Warren." 


TRIFLES.  887 

As  Maggie  had  said,  Madam  Conway  was  going  to  Eng 
land.  At  first,  she  thought  of  taking  the  young  ladies  with 
her,  but,  thinking  they  were  hardly  old  enough  yet  to  be 
emancipated  from  the  school-room,  she  decided  to  leave 
ihsni  under  the  supervision  of  Mrs.  Jeffrey,  whose  niece  she 
promised  to  bring  with  her  on  her  return  from  America. 
Upon  her  departure  she  bade  Theo  and  Mag  a  most  affection 
ate  adieu,  adding  : 

"  Be  good  girls  while  I  am  away,"  keep  in  the  house, 
mind  Mrs.  Jeffrey,  and  don't  fall  in  love." 

This  last  injunction  came  involuntarily  from  the  old  lady, 
to  whom  the  idea  of  their  falling  iu  love  was  quite  as  pre 
posterous  as  to  themselves. 

"  Fall  in  love  1"  repeated  Maggie,  when  her  tears  were 
dried,  and  she  with  Theo  was  driving  slowly  home.  "  What 
could  grandma  mean  !  I  wonder  who  there  is  for  us  to 
love,  unless  it  be  John  the  coachman,  or  Bill  the  gardener. 
I  'most  wish  we  could  get  in  love  though,  just  to  see  how 
'twould  seem,  don't  you  ?"  she  continued. 

"  Not  with  anybody  here,"  answered  Theo,  her  nose  slight 
ly  elevated  at  the  thoughts  of  people  whom  she  had  been 
educated  to  despise. 

"  Why  not  here  as  well  as  elsewhere  ?"  asked  Maggie. 
"I  don't  see  any  difference.  But  grandma  needn't  be  trou 
bled,  for  such  things  as  men's  boots  never  came  near  our 
house  I  think  it's  a  shame  though,"  she  continued,  "  that 
we  don't  know  anybody,  either  male  or  female.  Let's  go 
down  to  Worcester,  some  day,  and  get  acquainted.  Don't 
yon  remember  the  two  handsome  young  men  whom  we  saw 
five  years  ago,  iu  Douglas's  store,  and  how  they  winked  at 
each  other  when  grandma  ran  down  their  goods,  and  said 
there  were  not  any  darning  needles  fit  to  use,  this  side  oi 
the  water  1" 


238  MAGGIE    MILLER. 

On  most  subjects,  Theo's  memory  w  as  treacherous,  but 
she  remembered  perfectly  well  the  two  young  men,  particu 
larly  the  taller  one,  who  had  given  her  a  remnant  of  blue 
ribbon,  which  he  said  was  just  the  color  of  her  eyes.  Still, 
the  idea  of  goiug  to  Worcester  did  not  strike  her  favorably. 
"  She  wished  Worcester  would  come  to  them,"  she  said, 
"  but  she  should  not  dare  to  go  there.  They  would  surely 
get  lost.  Grandma  would  not  like  it,  and  Mrs.  Jeffrey 
would  not  let  them  go,  even  if  they  wished." 

"  A  fig  for  Mrs.  Jeffrey,"  said  Maggie.  "  I  shan't  mind 
her  much.  I'm  going  to  have  a  real  good  time,  doing  as  I 
please,  and  if  you  are  wise,  you'll  have  one  too." 

"  I  suppose  I  shall  do  what  you  tell  me  to — I  always  do," 
answered  Theo,  submissively,  and  there  the  conversation 
ceased. 

Arrived  at  home  they  found  dinner  awaiting  them,  and 
Maggie,  when  seated,  suggested  to  Mrs.  Jeffrey  that  she 
should  give  them  a  vacation  of  a  few  weeks,  just  long  enough 
for  them  to  get  rested  and  visit  the  neighbors.  But  this 
Mrs.  Jeffrey  refused  to  do. 

"She  had  her  orders  to  keep  them  at  their  books,"  she 
said,  and  "  study  was  healthful ;"  at  the  same  time  she  bade 
them  be  in  the  school-room  on  the  morrow.  There  was  a 
wicked  look  in  Maggie's  eyes,  but  her  tongue  told  no  tales, 
and  when  next  morning  she  went  with  Theo,  demurely  to 
the  school-room,  she  seemed  surprised  at  hearing  from  Mrs. 
Jeffrey  that  every  book  had  disappeared  from  the  desk, 
where  they  were  usually  kept  ;  and  though  the  greatly  dis 
turbed  and  astonished  lady  had  sought  for  them  nearly  an 
hour,  they  were  not  to  be  found. 

41  Maggie  has  hidden  them,  I  know,"  said  Theo,  as  she 
saw  the  mischievous  look  on  her  sister's  face. 

"  Margaret  wouldn't  do  such  a  thing,  I'm  sure,"  answered 


TRIFLES.  SSt 

Mrs.  Jeffrey,  her  voice  and  manner  indicating  a  little  doubt, 
however,  as  to  the  truth  of  her  assertion. 

But  Maggie  had  hidden  them,  and  no  amount  of  coaxing 
could  persuade  her  to  bring  them  back.  "You  refused  me 
a  vacation  when  I  asked  for  it,"  she  said,  "  so  I'm  going 
to  have  it  perforce  ;"  and  playfully  catching  up  the  little 
dumpy  figure  of  her  governess,  she  carried  her  out  upon  the 
piazza,  and  seating  her  in  a  large  easy-chair,  bade  her  "  take 
snuff  and  comfort,  too,  as  long  as  she  liked." 

Mrs.  Jeffrey  knew  perfectly  well  that  Maggie  in  reality  was 
mistress  of  the  house,  that  whatever  she  did  Madam  Couway 
would  ultimately  sanction  ;  and  as  a  rest  was  by  no  means 
disagreeable,  she  yielded  with  a  good  grace,  dividing  her 
time  between  sleeping,  snuffing  and  dressing,  while  Theo 
lounged  upon  the  sofa  and  devoured  some  musty  old  novels, 
which  Maggie,  in  her  rummaging,  had  discovered. 

Meanwhile  Maggie  kept  her  promise  of  visiting  the  neigh 
bors,  and  almost  every  family  had  something  to  say  in  praise 
of  the  merry  light-hearted  girl,  of  whom  they  had  heretofore 
known  but  little.  Her  favorite  recreation,  however,  was 
riding  on  horseback,  and  almost  every  day  she  galloped 
through  the  woods  and  over  the  fields,  usually  terminating 
her  ride  with  a  call  upon  old  Hagar,  whom  she  still  con 
tinued  to  tease  unmercifully  for  the  secret,  and  who  was 
glad  when  at  last  an  incident  occurred  which  for  a  time 
drove  all  thoughts  of  the  secret  from  Maggie's  mind. 


•40  MAGGIE    MILLER. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

THE    JUNIOR     PARTNER. 

ONE  afternoon  towards  the  middle  of  April,  when  Mag 
gie  a*s  usual  was  flying  through  the  woods,  she  paused  for  a 
moment  beneath  the  shadow  of  a  sycamore,  while  Gritty 
drank  from  a  small  running  brook.  The  pony  having 
quenched  his  thirst,  she  gathered  up  her  reins  for  a  fresh 
gallop,  when  her  ear  caught  the  sound  of  another  horse's 
hoofs  ;  and  looking  back,  she  saw  approaching  her  at  a 
rapid  rate  a  gentleman  whom  she  knew  to  be  a  stranger. 
Not  caring  to  be  overtaken,  she  chirruped  to  the  spirited 
Gritty,  who,  bounding  over  the  velvety  turf,  left  the  unknown 
rider  far  in  the  rear. 

"  Who  can  she  be  ?"  thought  the  young  man,  admiring 
the  utter  fearlessness  with  which  she  rode  ;  then,  feeling  a 
little  piqued,  as  he  saw  how  the  distance  between  them  was 
increasing,  he  exclaimed,  "  be  she  woman,  or  be  she  witch, 
I'll  overtake  her,"  and  whistling  to  his  own  fleet  animal,  he, 
too,  dashed  on  at  a  furious  rate. 

"  Trying  to  catch  me,  are  you  ?"  thought  Maggie.  "  I'd 
laugh  to  see  you  do  it,"  and  entering  at  once  into  the  spirit 
Of  the  race,  she  rode  on  for  a  time  with  headlong  speed — 
than,  by  way  of  tantalizing  her  pursuer,  she  paused  for  a 
moment  until  he  had  almost  readied  her,  when  at  a  peculiar 
whistle  Gritty  sprang  forward,  while  Maggie's  mocking 
laugh  was  borne  back  to  the  discomfited  young  man,  whose 


THE    JUNIOR    PARTNER.  241 

interest  in  the  daring  girl  increased  each  moment.  It  was 
a  long,  long  chase  she  led  him,  over  hills,  across  the  plains, 
and  through  the  grassy  valley,  until  she  stopped  at  last 
within  a  hundred  yards  of  the  deep,  narrow  gorge,  through 
which  the  millstreaui  ran. 

"  I  have  you  now,"  thought  the  stranger,  who  knew  by 
the  dull,  roaring  sound  of  the  water,  that  a  chasm  lay  be 
tween  him  and  the  opposite  bank. 

But  Maggie  had  not  yet  half  displayed  her  daring  feats  of 
horsemanship,  and  when  he  came  so  near  that  his  waving 
browM  locks  and  handsome  dark  eyes  were  plainly  discerni 
ble,  she  said  to  herself,  "  he  rides  tolerably  well.  I'll  see 
how  good  he  is  at  a  leap,"  and,  setting  herself  more  firmly 
in  the  saddle,  she  patted  Gritty  upon  the  neck.  The  well 
trained  animal  understood  the  signal,  and  rearing  high  in 
the  air,  was  fast  ncaring  the  bank,  when  the  young  man, 
suspecting  her  design,  shrieked  out,  "  Stop,  lady,  stop  I  It's 
madness  to  attempt  it." 

"  Follow  me  if  you  can,"  was  Maggie's  defiant  answer, 
and  the  next  moment  she  hung  in  mid  air  over  the  dark 
abyss. 

Involuntarily  the  young  man  closed  his  eyes,  while  his  ear 
listened  anxiously  for  the  cry  which  would  come  next.  But 
Maggie  knew  full  well  what  she  was  doing.  She  had  leaped 
that  narrow  gorge  often,  and  now  when  the  stranger's  eyes 
unclosed,  she  stood  upon  the  opposite  bank,  caressing  the 
noble  animal  which  had  borne  her  safely  there. 

"  It  shall  never  be  said  that  Henry  AV'arner  was  beaten 
by  a  school-girl,"  muttered  the  stranger.  "If  she  can  clear 
that,  I  can,  bad  rider  as  I  am  !"  and  burying  his  spurs  deep 
in  the  sides  of  his  horse,  he  pressed  on  while  Maggie  held 
her  breath  in  fear,  for  she  knew  that  without  practice  no 
one  could  do  what  she  had  done. 

11 


l«»  MAGGIE    MILLER. 

There  was  a  partially  downward  plunge — a  fierce  strug- 
gle  on  the  shelving  bank,  where  the  animal  had  struck  a 
few  feet  from  the  top, — then  the  steed  stood  panting  ou 
terra  firma,  while  a  piercing  °hriek  broke  the  deep  silence 
of  the  wood,  and  Maggie's  cheeks  blanched  to  a  marble  hue. 
The  rider,  either  from  dizziness  or  fear,  had  fallen  at  the 
moment  the  horse  first  struck  the  bank,  and  from  the  ravine 
below  there  came  no  sound  to  tell  if  yet  he  lived. 

"  He's  dead  ;  he's  dead  1"  cried  Maggie.  "  'Twas  my 
own  foolishness  which  killed  him,"  and  springing  from  Grit- 
ty's  back  she  gathered  up  her  long  riding  skirt,  and  glided 
ewiftly  down  the  bank,  until  she  came  to  a  wide,  projecting 
rock,  where  the  stranger  lay,  motionless  and  still,  his  white 
face  upturned  to  the  sunlight,  which  came  stealing  down 
through  the  overhanging  boughs.  In  an  instant  she  was 
at  his  side,  and  his  head  was  restng  on  hor  lap,  while  her 
trembling  fingers  parted  back  from  his  pale  brow  the  damp 
mass  of  curling  hair. 

"  The  fall  alone  would  not  kill  him,"  she  said,  as  her  eye 
measured  the  distance,  and  then  she  looked  anxiously  round 
for  water,  with  which  to  bathe  his  face. 

But  water  there  was  none,  save  in  the  stream  below, 
whose  murmuring  flow  fell  mockingly  on  her  ears,  for  it 
seemed  to  say  she  could  not  reach  it.  But  Maggie  Miller 
was  equal  to  any  emergency,  and  venturing  out  to  the  very 
edge  of  the  rock,  she  poised  herself  on  one  foot,  and  looked 
down  the  dizzy  height,  to  see  if  it  were  possible  to  descend. 

"  I  can  try  at  least,"  she  said,  and  glancing  at  the  pule 
face  of  the  stranger,  unhesitatingly  resolved  to  attempt  it 

The  descent  was  less  difficult  than  she  had  anticipated, 
and  in  an  incredibly  short  space  of  time,  she  was  dipping 
ber  tasteful  velvet  cap  in  the  brook,  whose  sparkling  foam 
had  never  before  been  disturbed  by  the  touch  of  a  hand  as 


THE    JUNIOR    PARTNER.  241 

Soft  and  fair  as  hers.  To  ascend  was  not  so  easy  a  matter  ; 
but  chamois-like,  Maggie's  feet  trod  safely  the  dangerou? 
path,  and  she  soon  knelt  by  the  unconscious  man,  bathing 
his  forehead  in  the  clear  cold  water,,  until  he  showed  signs 
of  returning  life.  His  lips  moved  slowly,  at  last,  as  if  he 
would  speak  ;  and  Maggie,  bending  low  to  catch  the  faint 
est  sound,  heard  him  utter  the  name  of  "  Rose."  In  Mag 
gie's  bosom,  there  was  no  feeling  for  the  stranger,  save  that 
of  pity,  and  yet,  that  one  word  "  Rose/'  thrilled  her  with  a 
strange  undefinable  emotion,  awaking  at  once  a  yearning 
desire  to  know  something  of  her  who  bore  that  beautiful 
name,  and  who,  to  the  young  man,  was  undoubtedly  the 
one  in  all  the  world  most  dear. 

"  Rose,"  he  said  again,  "is  it  you  ?"  and  his  eyes,  which 
opened  slowly,  scanned  with  an  eager,  questioning  look,  the 
face  of  Maggie,  who,  open-hearted  and  impulsive  as  usual, 
answered  somewhat  sadly  :  "  I  am  nobody  but  Maggie 
Miller.  I  am  not  Rose,  though  I  wish  I  was,  if  you  would 
like  to  see  her. 

The  tones  of  her  voice  recalled  the  stranger's  wandering 
mind,  and  he  answered  :  "  Your  voice  is  like  Rose, 
but  I  would  rather  see  you,  Maggie  Miller.  I  like  your 
fearlessness,  so  unlike  most  of  your  sex.  Rose  is  far  more 
gentle,  more  feminine  than  yon,  and  if  her  very  life  depended 
upon  it,  she  would  never  dare  leap  that  gorge." 

The  young  man  intended  no  reproof  ;  but  Maggie  look  his 
words  as  such,  and  for  the  first  time  in  her  life,  began  to'think 
that  possibly  her  manner  was  not  always  as  womanly  as 
might  be.  At  all  events  she  was  not  like  the  gentle  Rose, 
whom  she  instantly  invested  with  every  possible  grace  and 
boauty,  wishing  that  she  herself  was  like  her,  instead  of  the 
wild  mad-cap  she  was.  Then  thinking  her  conduct  required 
some  apology,  she  answered,  as  none  save  one  as  fresh  and 


84*  MAGGIE    MILLER. 

ingenuous  as  Maggie  Miller  would  have  answered,  "  I  don't 
know  any  better  than  to  behave  as  I  do.  I've  always  lived 
in  the  woods — have  never  been  to  school  a  day  in  my  life — 
never  been  anywhere  except  to  camp  meeting,  and  once  to 
Douglas's  store  in  Worcester  I" 

This  was  entirely  a  new  phase  of  character  to  the  man  ol 
the  world,  who  laughed  aloud,  and  at  the  mention  of  Doug 
las's  store,  started  so  quickly,  that  a  spasm  of  pain  distorted 
his  features,  causing  Maggie  to  ask  if  he  were  badly  hurt. 

"Nothing  but  a  broken  leg,"  he  answered  ;  and  Maggie 
to  whose  mind  broken  bones  conveyed  a  world  of  pain  and 
Buffering,  replied.  "  Oh,  I  am  so  sorry  for  you,  and  it's  my 
fault,  too.  Will  you  forgive  me  ?"  and  her  little  chubby 
hands  clasped  his  so  pleadingly,  that  raising  himself  upon 
his  elbow,  so  as  to  obtain  a  better  view  of  her  bright  face, 
he  answered  ;  "  I'd  willingly  break  a  hundred  bones  for  the 
sake  of  meeting  a  girl  like  you,  Maggie  Miller." 

Maggie  was  unused  to  flattery,  save  as  it  came  from  her 
grandmother,  Theo,  or  old  Hagar,  and  now  paying  no  heed 
to  his  remark,  she  said,  "  Can  you  stay  here  alon^,  while  I 
go  for  help  ?  our  house  is  not  far  away." 

"  I'd  rather  you  would  remain  with  me,"  he  replied  ;  "  but 
as  you  cannot  do  both,  I  suppose  you  must  go." 

"  I  shan't  be  gone  long,"  said  Maggie,  "  and  I'll  send 
old  Hagar  to  keep  you  company  ;"  so  saying,  she  climbed 
the  bank,  and  mounting  Gritty,  who  stood  quietly  awaiting 
her, '  she  seized  the  other  horse  by  the  bridle,  and  rode 
swiftly  away,  leaving  the  young  man  to  meditate  upon  the 
novel  situation  in  which  he  had  so  suddenly  been  placed. 

"  Ain't  I  in  a  pretty  predicament  ?"  said  he,  as  he  tried  in 
vain  to  move  his  swollen  limb,  which  was  broken  in  two 
places,  but  which  being  partially  benumbed,  uid  not  now 
pain  him  much.  "But  it  serves  me  right  for  chasing-  a 


THE    JUNIOR    PARTNER.  24fl 

harum-scarum  thing,  when  I  ought  to  have  been  minding  in* 
own  ousiness,  and  collecting  bills  for  Douglas  &  Co.  And 
she  says  she's  been  there,  too.  I  wonder  who  she  is,  the 
handsome  sprite.  I  believe  I  made  her  more  than  half 
jealous,  talking  of  my  golden-haired  Rose  ;  but  she  is  far 
more  beautiful  than  Rose,  more  beautiful  than  any  one  I 
ever  saw.  I  wish  she'd  come  back  again,"  and  shutting  hia 
eyes,  he  tried  to  recall  the  bright,  animated  face,  which  had 
BO  lately  bent  anxiously  above  him.  "  She  tarries  long,"  he 
said,  at  last,  beginning  to  grow  uneasy.  "  I  wonder  how 
far  it  is,  and  where  the  deuce  can  this  old  Hagar  be,  of 
whom  she  spoke." 

"  She's  here,"  answered  a  shrill  voice,  and  looking  up,  he 
gaw  before  him  the  bent  form  of  Hagar  Warren,  at  whose 
door  Maggie  had  paused  for  a  moment,  while  she  told  of  the 
accident,  and  begged  of  Hagar  to  hasten. 

Accordingly,  equipped  with  a  blanket  and  pillow,  a  brandy 
bottle  and  the  camphor,  old  Hagar  had  come,  but  when  she 
offered  the  latter  for  the  young  man's  acceptance,  he  pushed 
it  from  him,  saying,  "  Camphor  was  his  detestation,  but  he 
shouldn't  object  particularly  to  smelling  of  the  other  bot 
tle  1" 

"No  you  don't,"  said  Hagar,  who  thought  him  in  not 
quite  so  deplorable  a  condition  as  she  had  expected  to  find 
him.  "  My  creed  is  never  to  give  young  folks  brandy,  except 
in  cases  of  emergency  ;  so  saying  she  made  him  more  comfort 
able  by  placing  a  pillow  beneath  his  head,  and  then  think 
ing  possibly,  that  ttiis,  to  herself,  was  "  a  case  of  emergency," 
she  withdrew  to  a  little  distance,  and  sitting  down  upon  the 
gnarled  roots  of  an  upturned  tree,  drank  a  swallow  of  the 
old  Cognac,  while  the  young  man,  maimed  and  disabled, 
looked  wistfully  at  her  ! 

Not  that  he  cared  for  the  brandy,  of  which  he  seldom 


248  MAGGIE    MILLER. 

tasted  ;  but  he  needed  something  to  relieve  the  deathlike 
faintness  which  occasionally  came  over  him,  and  which  old 
Hagar,  looking  only  at  his  mischievous  eyes,  failed  to 
observe.  Only  those  who  knew  Henry  Warner  intimately 
gave  him  credit  for  the  many  admirable  qualities  he  really 
possessed  ;  so  full  was  he  of  fun.  It  was  in  his  merry  eyes, 
and  about  his  quizzically-shaped  mouth,  that  the  principal 
difficulty  lay  ;  and  most  persons,  seeing  him  for  the  first 
time,  fancied  that,  in  some  way,  he  was  making  sport  of 
them.  This  was  old  Hagar's  impression,  as  she  sat  there  in 
dignified  silence,  rather  enjoying,  than  otherwise,  the  occa 
sional  groans  which  came  from  his  white  lips.  There  were 
intervals,  however,  when  he  was  comparatively  free  from 
pain,  and  these  he  improved  by  questioning  her  with  regard 
to  Maggie,  asking  who  she  was,  and  where  she  lived. 

"  She  is  Maggie  Miller,  and  she  lives  in  a  house"  answered 
the  old  woman,  rather  pettishly. 

"  Ah,  indeed — snappish  are  you  ?"  said  the  young  man, 
attempting  to  turn  himself  a  little,  the  better  to  see  his  com 
panion.  "  Confound  ,that  leg  1"  he  continued,  as  a  fierce 
twinge  gave  him  warning  not  to  try  many  experiments.  "  I 
know  her  name  is  Maggie  Miller,  and  I  supposed  she  lived 
in  a  house  ;  but  who  is  she,  any  way,  and  what  is  she  ?" 

"  If  you  mean  is  she  anybody,  I  can  answer  that  question 
quick,"  returned  Hagar.  "  She  calls  Madam  Con  way  her 
grandmother,  and  Madam  Conway  came  from  one  of  the 
best  families  in  England — that's  who  she  is  ;  and  as  to  what 
flhe  is,  she's  the  finest,  handsomest,  smartest  girl  in 
America  ;  and  as  long  as  old  Hagar  Warren  lives,  no  city 
chap  with  strapped  down  pantaloons  and  sneering  mouth  is 
going  to  fool  with  her  either  I" 

"  Confound  my  mouth  1  It's  always  getting  me  into 
trouble,"  thought  the  stranger,  trying  in  vaiu  to  smooth 


THE    JUXIOR    PARTNER.  247 

down  the  corners  of  the  offending  organ,  which  in-  spke  of 
him  would  curve  with  what  Hagar  called  a  sn~>eY,  and  from 
which  there  finally  broke  a  merry  laugh,  sadly  at  variance 
with  the  suffering  expression  of  his  face. 

"  Your  leg  must  hurt  you  mightily,  the  way  you  go  on," 
muttered  Hagar,  and  the  young  man  answered  :  "  It  does 
almost  murder  me,  but  when  a  laugh  is  in  a  fellow,  he  can't 
help  letting  it  out,  can  he  ?  But  where  the  plague  can 

that  witch  of  a 1  beg  your  pardon,  Mrs.  Hagar,"  ho 

added  hastily,  as  he  saw  the  frown  settling  on  the  old 
woman's  face,  "  I  mean  to  say  where  can  Miss  Miller  be  ?  I 
shall  faint  away  unless  she  comes  soon,  or  you  give  me  a 
taste  of  the  brandy  1" 

This  time  there  was  something  in  the  tone  of  his  voice 
which  prompted  Hagar  to  draw  near,  and  she  was  abouU  to 
offer  him  the  brandy,  when  Maggie  appeared,  together 
with  three  men,  bearing  a  litter,  or  small  cot-bed.  The 
Bight  of  her  produced  a  much  better  effect  upon  him  than 
Hagar's  brandy  would  have  done,  and  motioning  the  old 
woman  aside,  he  declared  himself  ready  to  be  removed. 

"  Now,  John,  do  pray  be  careful  and  not  hurt  him  much," 
cried  Maggie,  as  she  saw  how  pale  and  faint  he  was,  while 
even  Hagar  forgot  the  curled  lip,  which  the  young  man  bit 
until  the  blood  started  through,  so  intense  was  his  agony 
when  they  lifted  him  upon  the  litter.  "  The  camphor, 
Hagar,  the  camphor,"  said  Maggie,  and  the  stranger  did 
not  push  it  aside  when  her  hand  poured  it  on  his  head  ;  but 
the  laughing  eyes,  now  dim  with  pain,  smiled  gratefully  upon 
her,  and  the  quivering  lips  once  murmured  as  she  walked 
beside  him,  "  Heaven  bless  you,  Maggie  Miller  1" 

Arrived  at  Hagar's  cottage,  the  old  woman  suggested 
that  he  be  carried  in  there,  saying  as  she  met  Maggie'a 
questioning  glance,  "  I  can  take  care  of  him  better  thac 
any  one  else." 


248  MAGGIE    MILLER. 

The  pain  by  this  time  was  intolerable,  and  scarcely  know- 
ing  what  he  said,  the  stranger  whispered,  "  Yes,  yes,  leave 
me  here." 

For  a  moment  the  bearers  paused,  while  Maggio,  bending 
over  the  wounded  man,  said  softly.  "  Can't  you  bear  it  a 
little  longer,  until  our  house  is  reached  ?  You'll  be  more 
somfortable  there.  Grandma  has  gone  to  England,  and  I'll 
take  care  of  you  myself  1" 

This  last  was  perfectly  in  accordance  with  Maggie's  frank, 
impulsive  character,  and  it  had  the  desired  effect.  Henry 
Warner  would  have  borne  almost  death  itself  for  the  sake 
of  being  nursed  by  the  young  girl  beside  him,  and  he  signi 
fied  his  willingness  to  proceed,  while  at  the  same  time  his 
hand  involuntarily  grasped  that  of  Maggie,  as  if  in  the 
touch  of  her  snowy  fingers  there  were  a  mesmeric  power  to 
soothe  his  pain.  In  the  meantime  a  hurried  consultation 
had  been  held  between  Mrs.  Jeffrey  and  Theo,  as  to  tho 
room  suitable  for  the  stranger  to  be  placed  in. 

"  It's  not  likely  he  is  much,"  said  Theo,  "  and  if  grandma 
were  here  I  presume  she  would  assign  him  the  chamber  over 
the  kitchen.  The  wall  is  low  on  one  side  I  know,  but  I  dare 
say  he  is  not  accustomed  to  anything  better." 

Accordingly  several  articles  of  stray  lumber  were  removed 
from  the  chamber,  which  the  ladies  arranged  with  care,  and 
which,  when  completed,  presented  quite  a  respectable  appear 
ance.  But  Maggie  had  no  idea  of  putting  her  guest,  as  she 
considered  him,  in  the  kitchen  chamber  ;  and  when,  as  the 
party  entered  the  house,  Mrs.  Jeffrey,  from  the  head  of  the 
stairs,  called  out,  "  This  way,  Maggie,  tell  them  to  come 
this  way,"  she  waved  her  aside,  and  led  the  way  to  a  large 
airy  room  over  the  parlor,  where,  in  a  high,  old  fashioned 
bed,  surrounded  on  all  sides  by  heavy  damask  curtains,  they 
laid  the  weary  stranger.  The  village  surgeon  arriving  soon 


THE    JUNIOR    PARTNER.  44* 

after,  the  fractured  bones  were  set,  and  then,  as  perfect 
quiet  seemed  necessary,  the  room  was  vacated  by  all  save 
Maggie,  who  glided  noiselessly  around  the  apartment, 
while  tl.e  eyes  of  the  sick  man  followed  her  with  eager, 
admiring  glances,  so  beautiful  she  looked  to  him  in  her  new 
capacity  of  nurse. 

Henry  Warner,  as  the  stranger  was  called,  was  the  ju 
nior  partner  of  the  firm  of  Douglas  &  Co.,  Worcester,  and 
his  object  in  visiting  the  Hillsdale  neighborhood  was  to  col 
lect  several  bills  which  for  a  long  time  had  been  due.  He 
had  left  the  cars  at  the  depot,  and  hiring  a  livery  horse  was 
taking  the  shortest  route  from  the  east  side  of  town  to  the 
west,  when  he  came  accidentally  upon  Maggie  Miller,  and 
as  we  have  seen,  brought  his  ride  to  a  sudden  close.  All 
this  he  told  to  her  on  the  morning  following  the  accident, 
retaining  until  the  last  the  name  of  the  firm  of  which  he 
was  a  member. 

"  And  you  were  once  there  at  our  store,"  he  said.  "  How 
long  ago  ?" 

"  Five  years  "  answered  Maggie,  "  when  I  was  eleven, 
and  Tbeo  thirteen  ;"  then,  looking  earnestly  at  him  she 
exclaimed,  "  and  you  are  the  very  one,  the  clerk  with  the 
saucy  eyes  whom  grandma  disliked  so  much,  because  she 
thought  he  made  fun  of  her  ;  but  we  didn't  think  so — Theo 
and  I,"  she  added  hastily,  as  she  saw  the  curious  expression 
on  Henry's  mouth,  and  fancied  he  might  be  displeased.  "  We 
liked  them  both  very  much,  and  knew  they  must  of  course  be 
annoyed  with  grandma's  English  whims." 

For  a  moment  the  saucy  eyes  studied  intently  the  fair 
girlish  face  of  Maggie  Miller,  then  slowly  closed,  while  a 
train  of  thought  something  like  the  following  passed  through 
the  young  man's  mind  ;  "  a  woman  and  yet  a  perfect  child, 
innocent  and  unsuspecting  as  little  Rose  herself  It  one 

11* 


?BO  MAGGIE    MILLER. 

respect  they  are  alike,  knowing  no  evil  and  expecting  none  ; 
and  if  I,  Henry  Warner,  do  aught  by  thought  or  deed  to 
injure  this  young  girl,  may  I  never  again  look  on  the  light 
of  day  or  breathe  the  air  of  heaven." 

The  vow  had  passed  his  lips.  Henry  Warner  never  br<  ke 
his  word,  and  henceforth  Maggie  Miller  was  as  safe  with 
him  as  if  she  had  been  an  only  and  well  beloved  sister. 
Thinking  him  to  be  asleep,  Maggie  started  to  leave  -the 
room,  but  he  called  her  back,  saying.  "  Don't  go  ;  stay 
with  me,  won't  you  ?" 

"  Certainly,"  she  answered,  drawing  a  chair  to  the  bedside, 
"  I  supposed  you  were  sleeping." 

"  I  was  not,"  he  replied.  "  I  was  thinking  of  you  and  of 
Rose.  Your  voices  are  much  alike.  I  thought  of  it  yester 
day  when  I  lay  upon  the  rock." 

"  Who  is  Rose?"  trembled  on  Maggie's  lips,  while  at  the 
sound  of  that  name,  she  was  conscious  of  the  same  undefina- 
ble  emotion  she  had  once  before  experienced.  But  the  ques 
tion  was  not  asked.  "  If  she  were  his  sister  he  would  tell 
me,"  she  thought  ;  "  and  if  she  is  not  his  sister  " 

She  did  not  finish  the  sentence,  neither  did  she  under 
stand  that  if  Rose  to  him  was  something  dearer  than  a 
sister,  she,  Maggie  Miller,  did  not  care  to  know  it. 

"  Is  she  beautiful  as  her  name,  this  Rose?"  she  asked  at 
last. 

"  She  is  beautiful,  but  not  so  beautiful  as  you.  There  are 
few  who  are,"  answered  Henry  ;  and  his  eyes  fixed  them- 
Belves  upon  Maggie,  to  see  how  she  would  bear  the  compli 
ment. 

But  she  scarcely  heeded  it,  so  intent  was  she  upon  know, 
ing  something  more  of  the  mysterious  Rose.  "  She  is  beauti 
ful,  you  say.  Will  you  tell  me  how  she  looks  ?"  she  con 
tinued  ;  and  Henry  Warner  answered,  "  she  is  a  frail,  deli 


THfi    JUNIOR    PARTNER.  351 

• 

cate  little  creature,  almost  dwarfish  in  size,  bat  perfect  ia 
form  and  feature." 

Involuntarily  Maggie  shrunk  back  in  her  vbair,  wishing 
her  own  queeuly  form  had  been  a  very  trifle  shorter,  whilo 
Mr.  Warner  continued,  "  She  has  a  sweet,  angel  face,  Mag 
gie,  with  eyes  of  lustrous  blue,  and  curls  of  golden  hair." 

"  You  must  love  her  very  dearly,"  said  Maggie,  the  tone 
of  her  voice  indicating  a  partial  dread  of  what  the  answer 
might  be. 

"  I  do  indeed  love  her,"  was  Mr.  Warner's  reply,  "  love 
her  better  than  all  the  world  beside.  And  she  has  made  me 
what  I  am  ;  but  for  her,  I  should  have  been  a  worthless 
dissipated  fellow.  It's  my  natural  disposition  ;  but  Rose  has 
saved  me,  and  I  almost  worship  her  for  it.  She  is  my  good 
angel — my  darling — my  " 

Here  he  paused  abruptly,  and  leaning  back  upon  his  pil 
lows  rather  enjoyed  than  otherwise  the  look  of  disappointment 
plainly  visible  on  Maggie's  face.  She  had  fully  expected  to 
learn  who  Rose  was  ;  but  this  knowledge  he  purposely  kept 
from  her.  It  did  not  need  a  very  close  observer  of  human 
nature,  to  read  at  a  glance  the  ingenuous  Maggie,  whose 
speaking  face  betrayed  aftl  she  felt.  She  was  unused  to  the 
world.  He  was  the  first  young  gentleman  whose  acquaint- 
fihe  had  ever  made,  and  he  knew  that  she  already  felt  for 
him  a  deeper  interest  than  she  supposed.  To  increase  this 
interest  was  his  object,  and  this  he  thought  to  do  by  with 
holding  from  her,  for  a  time,  a  knowledge  of  the  relation  ex 
isting  between  him  and  the  Rose  of  whom  he  had  talked  so 
much.  The  ruse  was  successful,  for  during  the  remaindci 
of  the  day,  thoughts  of  the  golden-haired  Rose  were  run 
ning  through  Maggie's  mind,  and  it  was  late  that  night  ere 
she  could  compose  herself  to  sleep,  so  absorbed  was  she  in 
wondering  "  what  Rose  was  to  Henry  Warner.  Not  that 


f52  MAGGIE    MILLEK. 

she  cared  particularly,"  she  tried  to  persuade  herself ;  "  bnl 
she  would  like  to  be  at  ease  upon  that  subject." 

To  Theo  she  had  communicated  the  fact,  that  their  guest 
was  a  partner  of  Douglas  &  Co.'  and  this  tended  greatly  to 
raise  the  young  man  in  the  estimation  of  a  young  lady  like 
Theo  Miller.  Next  to  rank  and  station  money  was  with  her 
the  one  thing  necessary  to  make  a  person  somebody.  Doug 
las,  she  had  heard,  was  an  immensely  wealthy  man;  possibly 
the  junior  partner  was  wealthy,  too  ;  and  if  so,  the  parlor 
chamber,  to  which  she  had  at  first  objected,  was  none  too 
good  for  his  aristocratic  bones.  She  would  go  herself  and 
see  him  in  the  morning. 

Accordingly,  on  the  morning  of  the  second  day  she  went 
with  Maggie  to  the  sick  room,  speaking  to  the  stranger  for 
the  first  time  ;  but  keeping  still  at  a  respectful  distance, 
until  she  should  know  something  definite  concerning  him. 

"  We  have  met  before,  it  seems,"  he  said,  after  the  first 
interchange  of  civilities  was  over  ;  "but  I  did  not  think  our 
acquaintance  would  be  renewed  in  this  manner." 

No  answer  from  Theo,  who,  like  many  others,  had  taken 
a  dislike  to  his  mouth,  and  felt  puzzled  to  know  whether  he 
intended  ridiculing  her  or  not.  • 

"  I  have  a  distinct  recollection  of  your  grandmother,"  he 
continued,  "  and  now  I  think  of  it,  I  believe  Douglas  has 
once  or  twice  mentioned  the  elder  of  the  two  girls.  That 
must  be  you  ?"  and  he  looked  at  Theo,  whose  face  bright 
ened  perceptibly 

"  Douglas,"  she  repeated.  "  He  is  the  owner  of  the 
store,  and  the  one  I  saw,  with  black  eyes  and  black  hair 
was  only  a  clerk." 

"  The  veritable  man  himself,"  cried  Mr.  Warner.  "  Georgs 
Doug/as,  the  senior  partner  of  the  firm,  said  by  some  to  bo 
worth  two  hundred  thousand  dollars,  and  only  twenty-eight 


THE    JUNIOR    PAATIfER.  251 

fears  old,  and  the  best  fellow  in  the  world,  except  that  he 
pretends  to  dislike  women." 

By  this  time,  Theo's  proud  blue  eyes  shone  with  delight, 
aud  when,  after  a  little  further  conversation,  Mr.  Warner 
expressed  a  wish  to  write  to  his  partner,  she  brought  her 
t?wn  rose-wood  writing-desk  for  him  to  use,  and  then  seat 
ing  herself  by  the  window,  waited  until  the  letter  was 
written. 

"  What  shall  I  say  for  you,  Miss  Theo  ?"  he  a.>ked,  near 
the  close  ;  and  coloring  slightly,  she  answered,  "  Invite  him 
to  come  out  and  see  you." 

"  Oh,  that  will  be  grand !"  cried  Maggie,  who  was  far 
more  enthusiastic,  though  not  more  anxious  than  her  sister. 

Of  her,  Henry  Warner  did  not  ask  any  message.  He 
would  not  have  written  it  had  she  sent  one  ;  and  folding 
the  letter,  after  adding  Theo's  invitation,  he  laid  it  aside. 

"  I  must  write  to  Rose  next,"  he  said,  "  'Tis  a  whole 
week  since  I  have  written,  and  she  has  never  been  so  long 
without  hearing  from  me." 

Instantly  there  came  a  shadow  over  Maggie's  face,  while 
Theo,  less  scrupulous,  asked,  "  who  Rose  was." 

"  A  very  dear  friend  of  mine,"  said  Henry,  and,  as  Mrs. 
Jeffrey  just  then  sent  for  Theo,  Maggie  was  left  with  him 
alone. 

"  Wait  one  moment,"  she  said,  as  she  saw  him  about  ,o 
commence  the  letter.  "  Wait  till  I  bring  you  a  sheet  of 
gilt-edged  paper.  It  is  more  worthy  of  Rose,  I  fancy,  than 
the  plainer  kind." 

"  Thank  you,"  he  said.  "  I  will  tell  her  of  your  sugges 
tion." 

The  paper  was  brought,  and  then  seating  herself  by  the 
window,  Maggie  looked  out  abstractedly,  seeing  nothing, 
and  hearing  nothing  save  the  sound  of  the  pen.  as  it 


254  MAGGIE    MILLER. 

down  morels  of  love,  for  the  gentle  Eose.  It  was  not  a  long 
epistle  ;  and,  as  at  the  close  of  the  Douglas  letter  he  had 
asked  a  message  from  Theo,  so  now  at  the  close  of  this,  he 
claimed  one  from  Maggie. 

"What  shall  I  say  for  you  ?"  he  asked  ;  and  coming  to 
ward  him,  Margaret  answered,  "  Tell  her  I  love  her,  though 
1  don't  know  who  she  is  1" 

"  Why  have  you  never  asked  me  ?"  queried  Henry,  and 
coloring  crimson,  Maggie  answered  hesitatingly,  "  I  thought 
you  would  tell  me  if  you  wished  me  to  know." 

"  Read  this  letter  and  that  will  explain  who  she  is,"  the 
young  man  continued,  offering  the  letter  to  Maggie,  who, 
grasping  it  eagerly,  sat  down  opposite,  so  that  every  mo 
tion  of  her  face  was  visible  to  him. 

The  letter  was  as  follows  : 

"  MY   DARLING    LITTLE    ROSE  t 

"  Do  you  fancy  some  direful  calamity  has  befallen  me, 
because  I  have  not  written  to  you  for  more  than  a  week  ? 
Away  with  your  fears,  then,  for  nothing  worse  has  come 
upon  me  than  a  badly  broken  limb,  which  will  probably  keep 
me  a  prisoner  here  for  two  months  or  more.  Now  don't  te 
frightened,  Rosa.  I  am  not  crippled  for  life,  and  even  if  I 
were,  I  could  love  you  just  the  same,  while  you,  I'm  sure, 
would  love  me  more. 

'  A.S  you  probably  know,  I  left  Worcester  on  Tuesday 
morning  for  the  purpose  of  collecting  some  bills  in  this 
Neighborhood.  Arrived  at  Hillsdalo  I  procured  a  horse, 
and  was  sauntering  leisurely  through  the  woods,  whoa 
I  came  suddenly  upon  a.  flying  witch  in  the  shape  of  a  beau 
tiful  young  girl.  She  was  the  finest  rider  I  ever  saw,  and 
Buch  a  chase  as  she  led  me,  until  at  last,  to  my  dismay,  sho 
leaped  across  a  chasm,  down  which  a  nervous  little  creature 


THE    JUNIOR    PARTNER.  26fl 

fike  you  would  be  afraid  to  look.  Not  wishing  to  be  out 
done,  I  followed  her,  and,  as  a  matter  of  course,  broke  my 
bones. 

"  Were  it  not  that  the  accident  will  somewhat  incommode 
Douglas,  and  greatly  fidget  you,  I  should  not  much  regret 
it,  for  to  me  there  is  a  peculiar  charm  about  this  old  stone 
house  and  its  quaint  surroundings.  But  the  greatest  charm 
of  all,  perhaps,  lies  in  my  fair  nurse,  Maggie  Miller,  for  whom 
I  risked  my  neck.  You  two  would  be  fast  friends  in  a  mo 
ment,  and  yet  you  are  totally  dissimilar,  save  that  your 
voices  are  much  alike. 

"  Write  to  me,  soon,  dear  Rose,  and  believe  me  ever 
"  Your  affectionate  brother, 

"  HENRY." 

"  Oh,"  said  Maggie,  catching  her  breath,  which  for  a 
time  had  been  partially  suspended,  "  Oh  ;"  and  in  that  sin 
gle  monosyllable,  there  was  to  the  young  man  watching  her, 
a  world  of  meaning.  "  She's  your  sister,  this  little  Rose  ;" 
and  the  soft  dark  eyes,  flashed  brightly  upon  him. 

"  What  did  you  suppose  her  to  be  ?"  he  asked,  and  Mag 
gie  answered,  "  I  thought  she  might  be  your  wife,  though  I 
should  rather  have  her  for  a  sister,  if  I  were  you." 

The  young  man  smiled  involuntarily,  thinking  to  himself 
how  his  fashionable  city  friends  would  be  shocker1,  at  such 
perfect  frankness,  which  meant  no  more  than  their  own 
studied  airs. 

"You  are  a  good  girl,  Maggie,"  he  said,  at  last,  "  and  I 
would  not  for  the  world  deceive  you  ;  Rose  is  my  step-sister. 
We  are  in  no  way  connected  save  by  a  marriage,  still  I  love 
her  all  the  same.  We  were  brought  ap  together  by  a  lady 
who  is  aunt  to  both,  and  Rose  seems  to  me  like  an  own 
Jear  sister.  She  has  saved  me  from  almost  everything.  I 


25e  MAGGIE    MILLER. 

once  loved  the  wine  cup  ;  but  her  kindly  words  and  getitle 
influence  won  me  back,  so  that  now  I  seldom  taste  it.  And 
once  I  thought  to  run  away  to  sea,  but  Rose  found  it  out, 
and  meeting  me  at  the  gate,  persuaded  me  to  return.  It  ia 
wonderful,  the  influence  she  has  over  me,  keeping  my  wild 
spirits  in  check,  and  if  I  am  ever  anything,  I  shall  owe  it  all 
to  her." 

"  Does  she  live  in  Worcester  ?"  asked  Maggie  ;  and  Ilenry 
answered,  "  No,  in  Lcominster,  which  is  not  far  distant.  I 
go  home  once  a  mouth,  and  I  fancy  I  can  see  Rose  now,  just 
as  she  looks  when  she  comes  tripping  down  the  walk  to 
meet  me,  her  blue  eyes  shining  like  stars,  and  her  golden 
curls  blowing  over  her  pale  forehead.  She  is  very,  very 
frail  :  and  sometimes  when  I  look  upon  her,  the  dread  fear 
steals  over  me,  that  there  will  come  a  time,  ere  long,  when  I 
shall  have  no  sister." 

There  were  tears  in  Maggie's  eyes,  tears  for  the  fair  young 
girl  whom  she  had  never  seen,  and  she  felt  a  yearning  desire 
to  look  once  on  the  beautiful  face  of  her  whom  Henry  War 
ner  called  his  sister.  "  I  wish  she  would  come  here,  I 
want  to  see  her,"  she  said,  at  last,  and  Henry  replied,  "  She 
does  not  go  often  from  home.  But  I  have  her  daguerreo 
type  in  Worcester.  I'll  write  to  Douglas  to  bring  it,"  and 
opening  the  letter,  which  was  not  yet  sealed,  he  added  a 
few  lines.  "  Come,  Maggie,"  he  said,  when  this  was  finished, 
"  you  need  exercise.  Suppose  you  ride  over  to  the  office 
with  these  letters." 

Maggie  would  rather  have  remained  with  him  :  but  she 
expressed  her  willingness  to  go,  and  in  a  few  moments  waa 
seated  on  Gritty's  back,  with  the  two  letters  clasped  firmly 
in  her  hand.  At  one  of  these,  the  one  bearing  the  name  of 
Rose  Warner,  she  looked  often  and  wistfully  ;  "  'twas  a  most 
beautiful  nauvj,"  she  thought,  "  and  she  who  bore  it  was 


JUNIOR  PARTNER.  «* 

beautiful  too."  And  then  there  arose  within  her  a  wish, 
shadowy  aud  undefined  to  herself,  it  is  true — but  still  a  wish 
that  she,  Maggie  Miller,  might  one  day  call  that  geutlo 
Hose  her  sister.  "  1  shall  see  her  sometimes,  any  way,  she 
thought,  "  aud  this  George  Douglas,  too.  I  wish  they'd 
?isit  us  together,"  and  having  by  this  time  reached  the 
post  office,  she  deposited  the  letters,  and  galloped  rapidly 
toward  home. 


258  MAGGIE    MILLER. 


CHAPTER    VIC. 

THE     SENIOR     PARTNER. 

THE  large  establishment  of  Douglas  &  Co.  was  closed  foi 
the  night.  The  clerks  had  gone  each  to  his  own  place  ; 
old  Safford,  the  poor  relation,  the  man  of  all  work,  who 
attended  faithfully  to  everything,  groaning  often  and  pray 
ing  oftener,  over  the  careless  habits  of  "  the  boys,"  as  he 
called  the  two  young  men,  his  employers,  had  sought  his 
comfortless  bachelor  attic,  where  he  slept  always  with  one 
ear  open,  listening  for  any  burglarious  sound  which  might 
corne  from  the  store  below,  and  which  had  it  come  to  him 
listening  thus,  would  have  frightened  him  half  to  death. 
George  Douglas,  too,  the  senior  partner  of  the  firm,  had  retired 
to  his  own  room,  which  was  far  more  elegantly  furnished  thau 
that  of  the  old  man  in  the  attic,  and  now  in  a  velvet  easy 
chair,  he  sat  reading  the  letter  from  Hillsdale,  which  had 
arrived  that  evening,  and  a  portion  of  which  we  subjoin  for 
the  reader's  benefit. 

After  giving  an  account  of  his  accident,  and  the  manner 
hi  which  it  oc  ;urred,  Warner  continued  : 

"  They  say  'tis  a  mighty  bad  wind  which  blows  no  one 
my  good,  and  so,  though  I  verily  believe  I  suffer  all  a  man 
can  suffer  with  a  broken  bone,  yet,  when  I  look  at  the  fair 
fece  of  Maggie  Miller,  I  feel  that  I  would  not  exchange  this 
high  old  bed,  to  enter  which,  needs  a  short  ladder,  even  for 
ft  seat  by  you  on  that  three-legged  stool,  behind  the  old 


THE  SENIOR  PARTNER.  «25» 

writing-desk.  I  never  saw  anything  like  her  in  my  life 
Everything  she  thinks,  she  says,  and  as  to  flattering  her,  it 
can't  be  clone.  I've  told  her  a  dozen  times  at  least  that  she 
was  beautiful,  and  she  didn't  mind  it  any  more  than  Eoso 
does,  when  I  flatter  her.  Still,  I  fancy  if  I  were  to  talk  to 
her  of  love,  it  might  make  a  difference,  and  perhaps  I  shall, 
ere  I  leave  the  place. 

"  You  know,  George,  I  have  always  insisted  there  was 
but  one  female  in  the  world  fit  to  be  a  wife,  and  as  that  one 
was  my  sister,  I  should  probably  never  have  the  pleasure  of 
paying  any  bills  for  Mrs.  Henry  Warner ;  but  I've  half 
changed  my  mind,  and  I'm  terribly  afraid  this  Maggie  Miller, 
not  content  with  breaking  my  bones,  has  made  sad'  work 
with  another  portion  of  the  body,  called  by  physiologists, 
the  heart.  I  don't  know  how  a  man  feels  when  he  is  in  love  ; 
but  when  this  Maggie  Miller  looks  me  straight  in  the  face  with 
her  sunshiny  eyes,  while  her  little  soft  white  hand  pushes 
back  my  hair  (which  by  the  way,  I  slily  disarrange  on  pur 
pose)  I  feel  the  blood  tingle  to  the  ends  of  my  toes,  and 
still  I  dare  not  hint  such  a  thing  to  her.  'T  would  frighten 
her  off  in  a  moment,  and  she'll  send  in  her  place  either  an 
old  hag  of  a  woman,  called  Hagar,  or  her  proud  sister  Theo, 
whom  I  cannot  endure. 

"By  the  way,  George,  this  Theo  will  just  suit  you,  who 
are  fond  of  aristocracy.  She's  proud  as  Lucifer,  thinks 
because  she  was  born  in  England,  and  sprung  from  a  high 
family,  that  there  is  no  one  in  America  worthy  of  her  lady 
ship's  notice,  unless  indeed  they  chance  to  have  money.  Yon 
ought  to  have  seen  how  her  eyes  lighted  up  when  I  told  her 
you  were  said  to  be  worth  $200,000.  She  told  me  directly 
to  invite  you  out  here,  and  this,  I  assure  you,  was  a  good 
deal  for  her  to  do.  So  don  your  best  attire,  not  forgetting 
the  diamond  cross,  and  come  for  a  day  or  two.  Old  Saf 


280  MAGGIE    MILLER. 

ford  will  attend  to  the  store.  It's  what  he  was  made  for( 
and  he  likes  it.  But  as  I  am  a  Warner,  so  shall  I  do  my 
luty,  and  warn  you  not  to  meddle  with  Maggie.  She  is  ray 
own  exclusive  property,  and  altogether  too  good  foi  a 
worldly  fellow  like  you.  T/ieo  will  suit  you  better.  She's 
just  aristocratic  enough  in  her  nature.  I  don't  see  how  the 
two  girls  come  to  be  so  wholly  unlike  as  they  are.,  Why, 
I'd  sooner  take  Maggie  for  Rose's  sister,  than  for  Theo's. 

"  Bless  me,  I  had  almost  forgotten  to  ask  if  you  remem 
ber  that  stiff  old  English  woman,  with  the  snuff-colored 
satin,  who  came  to  our  store  some  five  years  ago,  and  found 
so  much  fault  with  Yankee  goods  as  she  called  them  ?  If 
you  have  forgotten  her,  you  surely  remember  the  two  girla 
in  fiats,  one  of  whom  seemed  so  much  distressed  at  her 
grandmother's  remarks.  S/ie,  the  distressed  one,  was 
Maggie  ;  the  other  was  Theo,  and  the  old  lady  was  Madam 
Conway,  who,  luckily  for  me,  chances  at  this  time  to  be  in 
England,  buying  up  goods  I  presume.  Maggie  says  that 
this  trip  to  Worcester,  together  with  a  camp-meeting  held 
in  the  Hillsdale  woods  last  year,  is  the  extent  of  her  travels, 
and  one  would  think  so  to  see  her.  A  perfect  child  of 
nature,  full  of  fun,  beautiful  as  a  Hebe  aud  possessing  the 
kindest  heart  in  the  world.  If  you  wish  to  know  more  of 
her,  conie  and  see  for  yourself,  but  again  I  warn  you,  handa 
off ;  nobody  is  to  flirt  with  her  but  myself,  and  it  is  very 
doubtful  whether  even  I  can  do  it  peaceably,  for  that  oltf 
Ilagar,  who  by  the  way  is  a  curious  specimen,  gave  me  to 
understand  when  I  lay  or*  the  rock,  with  her  sitting  by  aa 
n  sort  of  ogress,  that  so  long  as  she  lived  no  city  chap  witb 
strapped  pauts  (do,  pray,  bring  me  a  pair,  George,  without 
straps  !)  and  sneering  mouth  was  going  to  fool  with  Mar 
garet  Miller. 

"  So  you  see  my  mouth  is  at  fault  again.     Hang  it  all,  1 


THE    SENIOR    PARTNER.  86\ 

can't  imagine  what  ails  it  that  everybody  should  think  I'm 
making  fun  of  them.  Even  old  Safford  mutters  about  my 
making  months  at  him  when  I  haven't  thought  of  him  ir  a 
month  !  Present  my  compliments  to  the  old  gentleman, 
and  tell  him  one  of  '  the  boys '  thinks  seriously  of  following 
fais  advice,  which  you  know  is  '  to  sow  our  wild  oats  and 
get  a  wife.'  Do  pray  come,  for  I  am  only  half  myself 
without  you. 

"  Yours  in  the  brotherhood, 

"HENRY.  WARNER." 

For  a  time  after  reading  the  above,  George  Douglas  sat 
wrapt  in  thought,  then  bursting  into  a  laugh  as  he  thought 
now  much  the  letter  was  like  the  jovial,  light-hearted  fellow 
who  wrote  it,  he  put  it  aside,  and  leaning  back  in  his  chair 
mused  long  and  silently,  not  of  Theo,  but  of  Maggie,  half 
wishing  he  were  in  Warner's  place  instead  of  being  there  in 
the  dusty  city.  But  as  this  could  not  be,  he  contented  him 
self  with  thinking  that  at  some  time  not  far  distant  he  would 
visit  the  old  stone  house — would  see  for  himself  this  won 
derful  Maggie — and,  though  he  had  been  warned  against  it, 
would  possibly  win  her  from  his  friend,  who,  unconsciously 
perhaps,  had  often  crossed  his  path,  watching  him  jealously 
lest  he  should  look  too  often  and  too  long  upon  the  fragile 
Ros-3,  blooming  so  sweetly  in  her  bird's-nest  of  a  home  'mong 
the  tall  old  trees  of  Leominster. 

"  But  he  need  not  fear,"  he  said  somewhat  bitterly,  "  he 
Deed  not  fear  for  her,  for  it  is  over  now.  She  has  refused 
jae,  this  Rose  Warner,  and  though  it  touched  my  pride  to 
hear  her  tell  me  no,  I  cannot  hate  her  for  it.  '  She  had 
given  her  love  to  another,'  she  said,  and  Warner  is  blind  or 
crazy  that  he  does  not  see  the  truth.  But  it  is  not  for  me 
to  enlighten  him.  He  may  call  her  sister  if  he  likes,  though 


202  MAGGIE    MILIER. 

there  is  no  tie  of  blood  between  them.  I'd  far  rather  it 
would  be  thus,  than  something  nearer  ;"  and  slowly  rising 
np,  George  Douglas  retired  to  dream  of  a  calm,  almost  hea 
venly  face,  which  but  the  day  before  had  been  bathed  in 
tears  as  he  told  to  Kose  Warner  the  story  of  his  love. 
Mingled  too  with  that  dream  was  another  face,  a  laughing, 
sparkling,  merry  face,  upon  which  no  man  ever  yet  had 
looked  and  escaped  with  a  whole  heart. 

The  morning  light  dispelled  the  dream,  and  when  in  the 
store  old  Safford  inquired  "  what  news  from  the  boy  ?"  the 
senior  partner  answered  gravely  that  he  was  lying  among 
the  Hillsdale  hills,  with  a  broken  leg  caused  by  a  fall  from 
his  horse. 

"  Always  was  a  careless  rider,"  muttered  old  Safford, 
mentally  deploring  the  increased  amount  of  labor  which 
would  necessarily  fall  upon  him,  but  which  he  performed 
without  a  word  of  complaint. 

The  fair  May  blossoms  were  faded,  and  the  last  June 
roses  were  blooming  ere  George  Douglas  found  time  or  in 
clination  to  accept  the  invitation  indirectly  extended  to  him 
by  Theo  Miller.  Rose  Warner's  refusal  had  affected  him 
more  than  he  chose  to  confess,  and  the  wound  must  be 
slightly  healed  ere  he  could  find  pleasure  in  the  sight  of 
another.  Possessed  of  many  excellent  qualities,  he  had  un 
fortunately  fallen  into  the  error  of  thinking  that  almost 
any  one  whom  he  should  select  would  take  him  for  hia 
money.  And  when  Rose  Warner,  sitting  by  his  side  in  the 
shadowy  twilight,  had  said,  "  I  cannot  be  your  wife,"  tho 
chock  was  sndden  and  hard  to  bear.  But  the  first  keen  bit. 
terness  was  over  now,  and  remembering  "  the  wild  girls  of 
the  woods,"  as  he  mentally  styled  both  Theo  and  Maggie, 
he  determined  at  last  to  see  them  for  himself. 

Accordingly,  on  the  last  day  of  June,  he  started  for  Hills 


THE    SENIOR    PARTNER.  2«l 

dale,  where  he  intended  to  remain  until  after  the  4th.  To  End 
the  old  house  was  an  easy  matter,  for  almost  every  one  in 
town  was  familiar  with  its  locality,  and  towards  the  close 
of  the  afternoon,  he  found  himself  upon  its  broad  steps  ap 
plying  vigorous  strokes  to  the  ponderous  brass  knocker,  and 
half  hoping  the  summons  would  be  answered  by  Maggie  her 
self.  But  it  was  not,  and  in  the  bent,  white-haired  woman 
who  came  with  measured  footsteps  we  recognize  old  Hagar, 
tfho  spent  much  of  her  time  at  the  house,  and  who  came  to 
the  door  in  compliance  with  the  request  of  the  young  ladies, 
both  of  whom,  from  an  upper  window,  were  curiously  watch 
ing  the  stranger. 

"  Just  the  old  witch  one  would  expect  to  find  in  this  out 
of  the  way  place,"  thought  Mr.  Douglas,  while  at  the  same 
time  he  asked  "  if  this  were  Madam  Conway's  residence,  and 
if  a  young  man  by  the  name  of  Warner  were  staying  here  ?" 

"  Another  city  beau  !"  muttered  Hagar,  as  she  answered 
in  the  affirmative,  and  ushered  him  into  the  parlor.  "  Ano 
ther  city  beau — there'll  be  high  carryings  on  now,  if  he's 
anything  like  the  other  one,  who's  come  mighty  nigh  turning 
the  house  upside  down." 

"  What  did  you  say  ?"  asked  George  Douglas,  catching 
the  sound  of  her  muttering,  and  thinking  she  was  address 
ing  himself. 

"  I  wasn't  speaking  to  you.  I  was  talking  to  a  likelier 
person,"  answered  old  Hagar,  in  an  under  tone,  as  she 
shuffled  away  in  quest  of  Henry  Warner,  who  by  this  time 
was  able  to  walk  with  the  help  of  a  cane. 

The  meeting  between  the  young  men  was  a  joyful  one, 
for  though  George  Douglas  was  a  little  sore  on  the  subject 
of  Rose,  he  would  not  suffer  a  matter  like  that  to  come  be 
tween  him  and  Henry  Warner,  whom  he  had  known  and 
liked  from  boyhood.  Henry's  first  inquiries  were  naturally 


264  MAGGIE    MILLER. 

of  a  business  character,  and  then  George  Douglas  spoke  of 
the  young  ladies,  saying  he  was  only  anxious  to  see  Mag, 
for  he  knew  of  course,  he  should  dislike  the  other. 

Such,  however,  is  wayward  human  nature,  that  the  fair, 
pule  face,  and  quiet,  dignified  manner  of  Theo  Miller  had 
greater  attractions  for  a  person  of  George  Douglas's  peculiar 
temperament  than  had  the  dashing,  brilliant  Mag.  There 
was  a  resemblance,  he  imagined,  between  Thco  and  Rose, 
and  this  of  itself  was  sufficient  to  attract  him  towards  her. 
Theo,  too,  was  equally  pleased  ;  and  when,  that  evening, 
Madam  Jeffrey  faintly  interposed  her  fast  departing  author 
ity,  telling  her  quondam  pupils  it  was  time  they  were  asleep, 
Theo  did  not,  as  usual,  heed  the  warning,  but  sat  very  still 
beneath  the  vine-wreathed  portico,  listening  while  George 
Douglas  told  her  of  the  world  which  she  had  never  seen. 
She  was  not  proud  towards  him,  for  he  possessed  the  charm 
of  money,  and  as  he  looked  down  upon  her,  conversing  with 
him  so  familiarly,  he  wondered  how  Henry  could  have  called 
her  cold  and  haughty — she  was  merely  dignified,  high-bred,  he 
thought,  and  George  Douglas  liked  anything  which  savored 
of  aristocracy. 

Meanwhile,  Henry  and  Mag  had  wandered  to  a  little 
cummer-house,  where,  with  the  bright  moonlight  falling  upon 
them,  they  sat  together,  but  not  exactly  as  of  old,  for 
Magg:-c  did  not  now  look  up  into  his  face  as  she  was  wont 
to  do,  and  if  she  thought  his  eye  was  resting  upon  her,  she 
moved  uneasily,  while  the  rich  blood  deepened  on  her  cheek. 
A  change  has  come  over  Maggie  Miller  ;  it  is  the  old  story, 
too — old  to  hundreds  of  thousands,  but  new  to  her,  the 
blushing  maiden.  Tlieo  calls  her  nervous — Mrs.  Jeffrey  calls 
her  sick — the  servants  call  her  mighty  queer — while  old  Hagar, 
hovering  ever  near,  and  watching  her  with  a  jealous  eye^ 
knows  she  is  in  love. 


THE    SENIOR    PARTNER.  265 

Faithfully  and  well  had  Hagar  studied  Henry  Warner,  to 
Bee  if  there  were  aught  in  him  of  evil ;  and  though  he  was 
not  what  she  would  have  chosen  for  the  queenly  Mug,  she 
was  satisfied  if  Margaret  loved  him  and  he  loved  Margaret. 
"  But  did  he  ?  He  had  never  told  her  so  ;"  and  in  Hagar 
Warren's  wild  black  eyes,  there  was  a  savage  gleam,  as  she 
thought,  "  he'll  rue  the  day  that  he  dares  trifle  with  Maggie 
Miller." 

But  Henry  Warner  was  not  trifling  with  her.  He  was 
only  waiting  a  favorable  opportunity  for  telling  her  the 
story  of  his  love  ;  and  now,  as  they  sit  together  in  the 
moonlight,  with  the  musical  flow  of  the  millstream  falling 
on  his  ear,  he  essays  to  speak — to  tell  how  she  has  grown 
into  his  heart  ;  to  ask  her  to  go  with  him  where  he  goes  ; 
to  make  his  home  her  home,  and  so  be  with  him  always  ; 
but  ere  the  first  word  was  uttered,  Maggie  asked  if  Mr. 
Douglas  had  brought  the  picture  of  his  sister. 

"  Why,  yes,"  he  answered,  "  I  had  forgotten  it  entirely. 
Here  it  is  ;"  and  taking  it  from  his  pocket,  he  passed  it  to  her. 

It  was  a  face  of  almost  ethereal  loveliness,  which  through 
the  moonlight  looked  up  to  Maggie  Miller,  and  again  she 
experienced  the  same  uudeSnable  emotion,  a  mysterious, 
invisible  something,  drawing  her  towards  the  original  of  the 
beautiful  likeness. 

"  It  is  strange  how  thoughts  of  Rose  always  affect  me," 
she  said,  gazing  earnestly  upon  the  large  eyes  of  blue, 
shadowed  forth  upon  the  picture.  "It  seems  as  though  sho 
must  be  nearer  to  me  than  an  unknown  friend." 

"Seems  she  like  a  sister  ?"  asked  Henry  Warner,  coming 
so  near  that  Maggie  felt  his  warm  breath  upon  her  cheek. 

"  Yes,  yes,  that's  it,"  she  answered,  with  something  of  her 
olden  frankness.  "  And  had  I  somewhere  in  the  world  an 
unknown  sister,  I  should  say  it  was  Rose  Warner  1" 

12 


266  MAGGIE    MILLER. 

There  were  a  few  low,  whispered  words,  and  when  the 
full  moon  which  for  a  time,  had  hidden  itself  behind  the 
clouds,  again  shone  forth  in  all  its  glory,  Henry  had  asked 
Maggie  Miller  to  be  the  sister  of  Rose  Warner,  and  Maggie 
had  answered  "  yes  1" 

That  night,  in  Maggie's  dreams,  there  was  a  strange  com 
mingling  of  thought.  Thoughts  of  Henry  Warner,  as  he 
told  her  of  his  love — thoughts  of  the  gentle  girl  whose  eyes 
of  blue  had  looked  so  lovingly  up  to  her,  as  if  between  them 
there  was  indeed  a  common  bond  of  sympathy — and 
stranger  far  than  all,  thoughts  of  the  little  grave  beneath 
the  pine,  where  slept  the  so-called  child  of  Hester  Hamilton 
— the  child  defrauded  of  its  birth-right,  and  who,  in  the  mis 
ty  vagaries  of  dreamland,  seemed  alone  to  stand  between  her 
and  the  beautiful  Rose  Warner  I 


STARS    AND    STRIPES. 


CHAPTER    VIII. 

STARS     AND     STRIPES. 

ON  the  rude  bench  by  her  cabin  door,  sat  Hagar  War 
ren,  her  black  eyes  peering  out  into  the  woods,  and  her 
quick  ear  turned  to  catch  the  first  sound  of  bounding  foot 
steps,  which  came  at  last,  and  Maggie  Miller  was  sitting  by 
her  side. 

"  What  is  it,  darling  ?"  Hagar  asked,  and  her  shrivelled 
hand  smoothed,  caressingly,  the  silken  hair,  as  she  looked 
into  the  glowing  face  of  the  young  girl  and  half  guessed 
what  was  written  there. 

To  Theo,  Mag  had  whispered  the  words,  "  I  am  engaged," 
and  Theo  had  coldly  answered,  "  Pshaw  ?  Grandma  will 
quickly  break  that  up.  Why,  Henry  Warner  is  compara 
tively  poor.  Mr.  Douglas  told  me  so,  or  rather  I  quizzed 
him  until  I  found  it  out.  He  says,  though,  that  Henry  has 
rare  business  talents,  and  he  could  not  do  without  him." 

To  the  latter  part  of  Theo's  remark,  Maggie  paid  little 
heed  ;  but  the  mention  of  her  grandmother  troubled  her. 
She  would  oppose  it,  Mag  was  sure  of  that,  and  it  was  to 
talk  on  this  very  subject  she  had  come  to  Hagar's  cottage. 

"  Just  the  way  I  s'posed  it  would  end,"  said  Hagar,  when 
Mag,  with  blushing,  half-averted  face,  told  the  story  of  her 
engagement;  "Just  the  way  I  s'posed 'twould  end,  but  1 
uidu't  think  'twould  be  so  quick." 


268  MAGGIE    MILLER. 

"  Two  months  aud  a  half  is  a  great  while,  and  then  wo 
have  been  together  so  much,"  replied  Maggie,  at  the 
same  time  asking  if  LTagar  did  not  approve  her  choice. 

"  Henry  Warner's  well  enough,"  answered  Hagar.  "  I've 
watched  him  close  and  see  no  evil  in  him  ;  but  be  isn't  the 
one  for  you,  nor  are  you  the  one  for  him.  You  are  both  too 
wild,  too  full  of  fun,  and  if  yoked  together  will  go  to  de^ 
utruction,  I  know.  You  need  somebody  to  hold  you  back, 
and  so  does  he." 

Involuntarily,  Maggie  thought  of  Rose,  mentally  resolving 
to  be,  if  possible,  more  like  her. 

"  You  are  not  angry  with  me  ?"  said  Hagar,  observing 
Maggie's  silence.  "  You  asked  my  opinion,  and  I  gave  it  to 
you.  You  are  too  young  to  know  who  you  like.  Henry 
Warner  is  the  first  man  you  ever  knew,  and,  in  two  years' 
time  you'll  tire  of  him." 

"  Tire  of  him,  Hagar  ?  Tire  of  Henry  Warner  1"  cried 
Mag,  a  little  indignantly.  "  You  do  not  know  me,  if  you 
think  I'll  ever  tire  of  him  ;  and  then,  too,  did  I  tell  you 
grandma  keeps  writing  to  me  about  a  Mr.  Cairollton,  who 
she  says  is  wealthy,  fine  looking,  highly  educated,  and  very 
aristocratic,  and  that  last  makes  me  hate  him  1  I've  heard 
so  much  about  aristocracy,  that  I'm  sick  of  it,  and  just  for 
that  reason  I  would  not  have  this  Mr.  Carrollton,  if  I  knew 
he'd  make  me  Queen  of  England.  But  grandma's  heart  is 
Eet  upon  it,  I  know,  aud  she  thinks  of  course  he  would  marry 
me — says  he  is  delighted  with  my  daguerreotype — that  aw 
ful  one,  too,  with  the  staring  eyes.  In  grandma's  last  let 
ter,  he  sent  me  a  note.  'Twas  beautifully  written,  and  I 
dare  say  he  is  a  fine  young  man,  at  least  he  talks  common 
tense,  but  I  shan't  answer  it  ;  and  if  you'll  believe  me,  I  used 
part  of  it  in  lighting  Henry's  cigar,  and  with  the  rest  I  shall 
light  fire-era diers  on  the  4th  of  July  ;  Henry  has  bought  a 


STAES    AND    STRIPES.  2ft* 

lot  of  them,  and  we're  going  to  have  fun.  How  grandma 
would  scold  ! — but  I  shall  marry  Henry  Warner,  any  way. 
Do  yoo  think  she  will  oppose  me,  when  she  sees  how  deter 
mined  I  am  ?" 

"  Of  course  she  will,"  answered  Hagar,  "  I  know  these 
Carrolltons  ;  they  are  a  haughty  race,  and  if  your  grand 
mother  has  one  of  them  in  view  she'll  turn  you  from  her 
door  sooner  than  see  you  married  to  another,  and  an  Ameri 
can,  too." 

There  was  a  moment's  silence,  and  then  with  an  unna 
tural  gleam  in  her  eye,  old  Hagar  turned  towards  Mag,  and 
grasping  her  shoulder,  said,  "  If  she  does  this  thing,  Maggie 
Miller — if  she  casts  you  off,  will  you  take  me  for  your  grand 
mother  ?  Will  you  let  me  live  with  you  ?  I'll  be  your 
drudge,  your  slave  ;  say,  Maggie,  may  I  go  with  you  ? 
Will  you  call  me  grandmother  ?  I'd  willingly  die  if  only 
once  I  could  hear  you  speak  to  me  thus,  and  know  it  was  in 
love." 

For  a  moment  Mag  looked  at  her  in  astonishment  ;  then 
thinking  to  herself,  "  She  surely  is  half-crazed,"  she  ans 
wered  laughingly,  "  Yes,  Hagar,  if  grandma  casts  me  off, 
you  may  go  with  me.  I  shall  need  your  care,  but  I  can't 
promise  to  call  you  grandma,  because  you  know  you  are 
not." 

The  corners  of  Hagar's  mouth  worked  nervously,  but  her 
teeth  shut  firmly  over  the  thin,  white  lip,  forcing  back  the 
wild  words  trembling  there,  and  the  secret  was  not  told. 

"  Go  home,  Maggie  Miller,"  she  said,  at  last,  rising  slowly 
vo  her  feet.  "  Go  home  now.  and  leave  me  alone.  I  am 
willing  you  should  marry  Henry  Warner,  nay,  I  wish  you  to 
do  it  ;  but  you  must  remember  your  promise." 

Maggie  was  about  to  answer,  when  her  thoughts  were 
directed  to  another  channel  by  the  sight  of  George  Douglaa 


f|-  MAGGIE    MILLER. 

and  Theo,  coming  slowly  down  the  shaded  pathway,  wliicfo 
led  past  Hagar's  door.  Old  Hagar  saw  them,  too,  and, 
whispering  to  Maggie,  said,  "  there's  another  marriage  brew 
ing,  or  the  signs  do  not  tell  true,  arid  madam  will  sanction 
this  one,  too,  for  there's  mouey  there,  and  gold  can  purify 
any  blood." 

Ere  Maggie  could  reply,  Theo  called  out,  "  you  here, 
Mag,  as  usual  ?"  adding,  aside,  to  her  companion,  "  she  haa 
the  most  unaccountable  taste,  so  different  from  me,  who 
cannot  endure  anything  low  and  vulgar.  Can  you  ?  But  I 
need  not  ask,"  she  continued,  "  for  your  associations  have 
been  of  a  refined  nature." 

George  Douglas  did  not  answer,  for  his  thoughts  were 
back  i  n  the  brown  farmhouse  at  the  foot  of  the  hill,  where 
his  boyhood  was  passed,  and  he  wondered  what  the  high 
bred  lady  at  his  side  would  say  if  she  could  see  the  sun 
burnt  man  and  plain,  old-fashioned  woman,  who  called  him 
their  son,  George  Washington  !  He  would  not  confess  that 
he  was  ashamed  of  his  parentage,  for  he  tried  to  be  a  kind 
and  dutiful  child,  but  he  would  a  little  rather  that  Theo  Mil 
ler  should  not  know  how  democratic  had  been  his  early 
training.  So  he  made  no  answer,  but,  addressing  himself 
to  Mag,  asked  "  how  she  could  find  it  in  her  heart  to  leave 
her  patient  so  long  ?" 

"  I'm  going  back  directly,"  she  said,  and  donning  her  flat, 
she  started  for  home,  thinking  she  had  gained  but  little 
satisfaction  from  Hagar,  who,  as  Douglas  and  Theo  passed 
on,  resumed  her  seat  by  the  door,  and  listening  to  the  sound 
of  Margaret's  retreating  footsteps,  muttered,  "  the  old  light- 
heartedness  is  gone.  There  are  shadows  gathering  round 
her  ;  for  once  in  love,  she'll  never  be  as  free  and  joyous 
again.  But  it  can't  be  helped  ;  it's  the  destiny  of  women, 
Bud  I  only  hope  this  Warner  is  worthy  of  her,  but  he  ain't 


STARS    AND    STRIPES.  271 

He's  toe  wild — too  full  of  what  Hagar  Warren  calls  bedevil' 
ment.  And  Mag  does  everything  he  tells  her  to  do.  Not 
content  with  tearing  down  his  bed-curtains,  which  have  hung 
there  full  twenty  years,  she's  set  things  all  cornerwise, 
because  the  folks  do  so  in  Worcester,  and  has  turned  the 
parlor  into  a  smoking  room,  till  all  the  air  of  Hillsdale  can't 
take  away  that  tobacco  scent.  Why,  it  almost  knocks  me 
down  1"  and  the  old  lady  groaned  aloud,  as  she  recounted 
to  herself  the  recent  innovations  upon  the  time-honored 
habits  of  her  mistress's  house. 

Henry  Warner  was,  indeed,  rather  a  fast  young  man,  but 
it  needed  the  suggestive  presence  of  George  Douglas  to 
bring  out  his  true  character  ;  and  for  the  four  days  succeed 
ing  the  arrival  of  the  latter,  there  were  rare  doings  at  the 
old  stone  house,  where  the  astonished  and  rather  delighted 
servants  looked  on  in  amazement,  while  the  young  men  sang 
their  jovial  songs  and  drank  of  the  rare  old  wine,  which  Mag, 
utterly  fearless  of  what  her  grandmother  might  say,  brought 
from  the  cellar  below.  But  when,  on  the  morning  of  the 
4th,  Henry  Warner  suggested  that  they  have  a  celebration, 
or,  at  least,  hang  out  the  American  flag  by  way  of  showing 
their  patriotism,  there  were  signs  of  rebellion  in  the  kitchen, 
while  even  Mrs.  Jeffrey,  who  had  long  since  ceased  to  inter 
fere,  felt  it  her  duty  to  remonstrate.  Accordingly,  she 
descended  to  the  parlor,  where  she  found  George  Douglas 
and  Mag  dancing  to  the  tune  of  Yankee  Doodle,  which 
Theo  played  upon  the  piano,  while  Henry  Warner  whistled 
a  most  stirring  accompaniment !  To  be  heard  above  that 
din  was  impossible,  and  involuntarily  patting  her  own  slip 
pered  foot  to  the  lively  strain,  the  distressed  little  lady  went 
back  to  her  room,  wondering  what  Madam  Conway  would 
say  if  she  knew  how  her  house  was  being  desecrated. 

But   Madam    Couway  did   not   know.      She   was    three 


27»  MAGGIE    MILLER. 

thousand  miles  away,  arid  with  this  distance  between  them, 
Maggie  dared  do  anything  ;  so  when  the  flag  was  again 
mentioned,  she  answered  apologetically,  as  if  it  were  some 
thing  of  which  they  ought  to  be  ashamed  :  "  We  never  had 
any,  but  we  can  soon  make  one,  I  know.  'Twill  be  fun  to 
see  it  float  from  the  house-top  1"  and,  flying  up  the  staira 
to  the  dusty  garret,  she  drew  from  a  huge  oaken  chest,  a 
scarlet  coat,  which  had  belonged  to  the  former  owner  of  the 
place,  who  little  thought,  as  he  sat  in  state,  that  his 
favorite  coat  would  one  day  furnish  materials  for  the 
emblem  of  American  freedom  ! 

No  such  thought  as  this,  however,  obtruded  itself  upon 
Mag,  as  she  bent  over  the  chest.  "The  coat  is  of  no  use,"  she 
said,  and  gathering  it  up,  she  ran  back  to  the  parlor,  where, 
throwing  it  across  Henry's  lap,  she  told  how  it  had  be 
longed  to  her  great-great-grandfather,  who,  at  the  time  of 
the  Revolution,  went  home  to  England.  The  young  men 
exchanged  a  meaning  look,  and  then  burst  into  a  laugh,  but 
the  cause  of  their  merriment  they  did  not  explain,  lest  the 
prejudices  of  the  girls  should  be  aroused. 

"This  is  just  the  thing,"  said  Henry,  entering  heart  and 
soul  into  the  spirit  of  the  fun.  "  This  is  grand.  Can't 
you  find  some  blue  for  the  ground-work  of  the  stars  ?" 

Mag  thought  a  moment,  and  then  exclaimed,  "  Oh,  yes, 
I  have  it,  grandma  has  a  blue  satin  bodice,  which  she  wore 
when  she  was  a  young  lady.  She  once  gave  me  a  part  of 
the  back  for  my  dolly's  dress, ,  She  won't  care  if  I  cut  up 
the  rest  for  a  banner." 

"  Of  course  not,"  answered  George  Douglas.  "  She'll  be 
glad  to  have  it  used  for  such  a  laudable  purpose,"  and  walk- 
ing  to  the  window,  he  laughed  heartily  as  hf>  saw  in  fancy 
the  wrath  of  the  proud  English  woman,  when  she  learned 
the  use  to  which  her  satin  bodice  had  been  appropriated. 


STARS    AND    STRIPES.  273 

The  waist  was  brought  in  a  twinkling,  and  then,  when 
Henry  asked  for  some  white,  Mag  cried,  "  A  sheet  will  bo 
just  the  thing — one  of  grandma's  small  linen  ones.  It 
won't  hurt  it  a  bit,"  she  added,  as  she  saw  a  shadow  on 
Theo's  brow,  and,  mounting  to  the  top  of  the  high  cheat 
of  drawers,  she  brought  out  a  sheet  of  finest  linen,  which, 
with  rose  leaves,  and  fragrant  herbs,  had  been  carefully 
packed  away. 

It  was  a  long,  delightful  process,  the  making  of  that  bail- 
ner,  and  Maggie's  voice  rang  out  loud  and  clear,  as  she  saw 
how  cleverly  Henry  Warner  managed  the  shears,  cutting 
the  red  coat  into  stripes.  The  arrangement  of  the  satin 
fell  to  Maggie's  lot,  and,  while  George  Douglas  made  the 
stars,  Theo  looked  on,  a  little  doubtfully,  not  that  her  nation 
ality  was  in  any  way  affected,  for  what  George  Douglas  sanc 
tioned  was  by  this  time  right  with  her  ;  but  she  felt  some  mis 
giving  as  to  what  hjer  grandmother  might  say  ;  and  thinking 
if  she  did  nothing  but  look  on  and  laugh,  the  blame  would 
fall  on  Mag,  she  stood  aloof,  making  occasionally  a  sugges 
tion,  and  seeming  as  pleased  as  any  one,  when,  at  last, 
the  flag  was  done.  A  quilting  frame  served  as  a  flag-staff, 
and  Mag  was  chosen  to  plant  it  upon  the  top  of  the  house, 
where  was  a  cupola,  or  miniature  tower,  overlooking  the 
surrounding  country.  Leading  to  this  tower  was  a  narrow 
staircase,  and  up  these  stairs  Mag  bore  the  flag,  assisted  by 
one  of  the  servant  girls,  whose  birth-place  was  green  Erin, 
and  whose  broad,  good-humored  face  shone  with  delight, 
as  she  fastened  the  pole  securely  in  its  place,  and  then  shook 
aloft  her  checked  apron,  in  answer  to  the  cheer  which  came 
tip  from  below,  when  first  the  American  banner  waved  ovef 
the  old  stone  house. 

Attracted  by  the  noise,  and  wondering  what  fresh  mis 
chief  they  were  doing,  Mrs.  Jeffrey  went  out  into  the  yard 

12* 


274  MAGGIE    MILLER. 

just  in  time  to  see  the  flag  of  freedom  as  it  shook  itself  out 
in  the  summer  breeze. 

"  Heaven  help  me  !"  she  ejaculated  ;  "  Stars  and  Stripes, 
on  Madam  Conway's  house  I"  and  resolutely  shutting  her 
eyes,  lest  they  should  look  again,  on  what  to  her  seemed 
sacrilege,  she  groped  her  way  back  to  the  house,  and  retir- 
ing  to  her  room,  wrote  to  Madam  Conway  an  exaggerated 
account  of  the  proceedings,  bidding  her  hasten  home,  or 
Mag  and  Theo  would  be  ruined. 

The  letter  being  written,  the  good  lady  felt  better — so 
much  better,  indeed,  that  after  an  hour's  deliberation  she 
concluded  not  to  send  it,  inasmuch  as  it  contained  many 
complaints  against  the  young  lady  Margaret,  who  she  knew 
was  sure  in  the  end  to  find  favor  in  her  grandmother's  eyes. 
This  was  the  first  time  Mrs.  Jeffrey  had  attempted  a  letter 
to  her  employer,  for  Maggie  had  been  the  chosen  correS' 
pondent,  Theo  affecting  to  dislike  anything  like  letter-writ 
ing.  On  the  day  previous  to  Henry  Warner's  arrival  at  the 
stone  house,  Mag  had  written  to  her  grandmother,  and  ere 
the  time  came  for  her  to  write  again,  she  had  concluded  to 
keep  his  presence  there  a  secret  :  so  Madam  Conway  was, 
as  yet,  ignorant  of  his  existence  ;  and  while  in  the  homes  of 
the  English  nobility,  she  bore  herself  like  a  royal  princess, 
talking  to  young  Arthur  Carrollton  of  her  beautiful  gran- 
daughter,  she  little  dreamed  of  the  real  state  of  affairs  at 
home. 

But  it  was  not  for  Mrs.  Jeffrey  to  enlighten  her,  and  tear 
ing  her  letter  in  pieces,  the  governess  sat  down  in  her  easy- 
chair  by  the  window,  mentally  congratulating  herself  upon 
the  fact  that  "  the  two  young  savages,"  as  she  styled  Doug 
las  and  Warner,  were  to  leave  on  the  morrow.  This  last 
act  of  theirs,  the  hoisting  of  the  banner,  had  been  the  cul 
minating  point,  and  too  indignant  to  sit  with  them  at  tte 


STARS    AND    STRIPES.  27« 

same  table,  she  resolutely  kept  her  room  throughout  the 
entire  day,  poring  intently  over  "  Baxter's  Saiut's  Rest," 
her  favorite  volume  when  at  all  flurried  or  excited.  Occasion 
ally,  too,  she  would  stop  her  ears  with  jeweller's  cotton,  tc 
shut  out  the  sound  of  Hail  Columbia  as  it  came  up  to  hey 
from  the  parlor  below,  where  the  young  men  were  doing 
their  best  to  show  their  patriotism. 

Towards  evening,  alarmed  by  a  whizzing  sound,  which 
seemed  to  be  often  repeated,  and  wishing  to  know  the  cause, 
she  stole  half  way  down  the  stairs,  when  the  mischievous 
Mag  greeted  her  with  a  serpent,  which  hissing  beneath  her 
feet,  sent  her  quickly  back  to  her  room,  from  which  she  did 
not  venture  again.  Mrs.  Jeffrey  was  very  good  natured, 
and  reflecting  that  "  young  folks  must  have  fun,"  she  became 
at  last  comparatively  calm,  and  at  an  early  hour  sought  her 
pillow.  But  thoughts  of  "  stars  and  stripes  "  waving  directly 
over  her  head,  as  she  knew  they  were,  made  her  nervous, 
and  the  long  clock  struck  the  hour  of  two,  while  she  waa 
yet  restless  and  wakeful. 

"  Maybe  the  Saint's  Rest  will  quiet  me  a  trifle,"  she 
thought,  and  striking  a  light,  she  attempted  to  read  ;  but  in 
vain,  for  every  word  was  a  star,  every  line  a  stripe,  and 
every  leaf  a  flag.  Shutting  the  book  and  hurriedly  pacing 
the  floor,  she  exclaimed,  "  It's  of  no  use  trying  to  sleep,  or 
meditate  either.  Baxter  himself  couldn't  do  it  with  that 
thing  over  his  head,  and  I  mean  to  take  it  down.  It's  a 
duty  I  owe  to  King  George's  memory,  and  to  Madam  Con- 
way  ;"  and  stealing  from  her  room,  she  groped  her  way  up 
the  dark,  narrow  stairway,  until  emerging  into  the  bright 
moonlight,  she  stood  directly  beneath  the  American  banner, 
waving  so  gracefully  in  the  night  wind.  "  It's  a  clevef 
enough  device,"  she  said,  gazing  rather  "admiringly  at  it. 
"  And  I'd  let  it  be  if  I  s'posed  I  eould  sleep  a  wink  ;  but  / 


27fl  MAGGIE    MILLER. 

can't.  It's  worse  for  my  nerves  than  strong  green  tea,  and 
I'll  not  lie  awake  for  all  the  Yankee  flags  in  Christendom  ;" 
BO  saying,  the  resolute  little  woman  tugged  at  the  quilt- 
frame  until  she  loosened  it  from  its  fastenings,  and  then 
started  to  return. 

But,  alas  !  the  way  was  narrow  and  dark,  the  banner  was 
large  and  cumbersome,  while  the  lady  that  bore  it  was  ner 
vous  and  weak.  It  is  not  strange,  then,  that  Maggie,  who 
slept  at  no  great  distance,  was  awakened  by  a  tremendous 
crash,  as  of  some  one  felling  the  entire  length  of  the  tower 
stairs,  while  a  Toice,  frightened  and  faint,  called  out,  "  Help 
me,  Margaret,  do  !  I  am  dead  !  I  know  I  am  1" 

Striking  a  light,  Maggie  hurried  to  the  spot,  while  her 
merry  laugh  aroused  the  servants,  who  came  together  in  a 
body.  Stretched  upon  the  floor,  with  one  foot  thrust 
entirely  through  the  banner,  which  was  folded  about  her 
so  that  the  quilt-frame  lay  directly  upon  her  bosom,  was 
Mrs.  Jeffrey,  the  broad  frill  of  her  cap  standing  up  erect, 
and  herself  asserting  with  every  breath  that  "  she  was  dead 
and  buried,  she  knew  she  was."  • 

"Wrapped  in  a  winding  sheet,  I'll  admit,"  said  Maggie, 
"  but  not  quite  dead,  I  trust ;"  and  putting  down  her  light, 
she  attempted  to  extricate  her  governess,  who  continued  to 
apologize  for  what  she  had  done,  "  Not  that  I  cared  so 
much  about  your  celebrating  America  ;  but  I  couldn't  sleep 
with  the  thing  over  my  head  ;  I  was  going  to  put  it  back  in 
the  morning  before  you  were  up.  There  !  there  I  careful  ! 
It's  broken  short  off  !"  she  screamed,  as  Maggie  tried  to  re 
lease  her  foot  from  the  rent  in  the  linen  sheet,  a  rent  which 
the  frightened  woma-)  persisted  in  saying,  "  she  could  dara 
as  good. as  new,"  while  at  the  same  time  she  implored  of 
Maggie  to  handle  carefully  her  ankle,  which  bad  beer 
sprained  by  the  fall. 


STARS    AND    STRIPES.  271 

Maggie's  recent  experience  in  broken  bones  had  made  bef 
quite  an  adept,  and  taking  the  slight  form  of  Mrs.  Jeffrey  it 
her  arms,  she  carried  her  back  to  her  room,  where  growing 
more  quiet,  the  old  lady  told  her  how  she  happened  to  fall, 
eaying,  "  she  never  thought  of  stumbling,  until  she  fancied 
that  Washington  and  all  his  regiment  were  after  her,  and 
when  she  turned  her  head  to  see,  she  lost  her  footing,  and 
fell. 

Forcing  back  her  merriment,  which  in  spite  of  herself 
would  occasionally  burst  forth,  Maggie  made  her  teacher  aa 
comfortable  as  possible,  and  then  staid  with  her  until  morn 
ing,  when,  leaving  her  in  charge  of  a  servant,  she  went  be 
low  to  say  farewell  to  her  guests.  Between  George  Pong- 
las  and  Theo,  there  were  a  few  low  spoken  words,  she 
granting  him  permission  to  write,  while  he  promised  to  visit 
her  again  in  the  early  autumn.  He  had  not  yet  talked  to 
her  of  love,  for  Eose  Warner  had  still  a  home  in  his  heart, 
and  she  must  be  dislodged  ere  another  could  take  her  place. 
But  his  affection  for  her  was  growing  gradually  less.  Theo 
suited  him  well,  her  family  suited  him  better,  and  when  at 
parting  he  took  her  hand  in  his,  he  resolved  to  ask  her  for 
it,  when  next  he  came  to  Tlillsdale. 

Meanwhile,  between  Henry  Warner  and  Maggie  there 
was  a  far  more  affectionate  farewell,  he  whispering  to  her 
of  a  time  not  far  distant,  when  he  would  claim  her  as  his 
own,  and  she  should  go  with  him.  He  would  write  to  her 
every  week,  he  said,  and  Rose  should  write,  too.  He  would 
see  her  in  a  few  days,  and  tell  her  of  his  engagement,  which 
be  knew  would  please  her. 

"  Let  me  send  her  a  line,"  said  Maggie,  and  on  a  tiny 
sheet  of  paper,  she  wrote,  "  Dear  Rose :  Are  you  willing 
I  should  be  your  sister,  Maggie  ?" 

Half  an  hour  later,  and  Hagar  Warren,  coming  through 


278  MAGGIE    MILLER. 

the  garden  gate,  looked  after  the  carriage  which  bore  the 
gentlemen  to  the  depot,  muttering  to  herself,  "  I'm  glad  the 
high  bucks  have  gone.  A  good  riddance  to  them  both." 

In  her  disorderly  chamber,  too,  Mrs.  Jeffrey  hobbled  on 
one  foot  to  the  window,  where,  with  a  deep  sigh  of  relief, 
she  sent  after  the  young  men  a  not  very  complimentary 
adieu,  which  was  echoed  in  part  by  the  servants  below, 
while  Theo,  on  the  piazza,  exclaimed  against  "the  lonesome 
old  house,  which  was  never  so  lonesome  before,"  and  Mag 
gie  seated  herself  upou  the  stairs  and  cried  1 


ROSE    WARNER.  S7« 


CHAPTER     IX. 

ROSE    WARNER. 

among  the  tall  old  trees  which  skirt  the  borders 
of  L«oniinster  village,  was  the  bird's-nest  of  a  cottage,  which 
Rose  Warner  called  her  home,  and  which,  with  its  wealth  of 
roses,  its  trailing  vines  and  flowering  shrubs,  seemed  fitted 
for  the  abode  of  one  like  her.  Slight  as  a  child  twelve  sum 
mers  old,  and  fair  as  the  white  poud  lily,  when  first  to  the 
morning  sun  it  unfolds  its  delicate  petals,  she  seemed  too 
frail  for  earth,  and  both  her  aunt  and  he  whom  she  called 
brother,  watched  carefully  lest  the  cold  iiorth  wind  should 
blow  too  rudely  on  the  golden  curls,  which  shaded  her  child 
ish  brow.  Very,  very  beautiful  was  little  Rose,  and  yet 
few  ever  looked  upon  her  without  a  feeling  of  saduess  ;  for 
in  the  deep  blue  of  her  eyes,  there  was  a  mournful,  dreamy 
look,  as  if  the  shadow  of  some  great  sorrow  were  resting 
thus  early  upon  her. 

And  Rose  Warner  had  a  sorrow,  too,  a  grief  which  none 
save  one  had  ever  suspected.  To  him  it  had  come  with  the 
words,  "  I  cannot  be  your  wife,  for  I  love  another  ;  one  who 
will  never  know  how  dear  he  is  to  me." 

The  words  were  involuntarily  spoken,  and  George  Doug 
las,  looking  down  upon  her,  guessed  rightly  that  he  "who 
would  never  know  how  much  he  was  beloved,"  was  Henry 
Warner.  To  her  the  knowledge  that  Henry  was  something 
dearer  than  a  brother  had  come  slowly,  filling  her  heart 


880  MAGGIE    MILLER. 

with  pain,  for  she  well  knew  that  whether  he  clasped  her  to 
his  bosom,  as  he  often  did,  or  pressed  his  lips  upon  her  brow, 
he  thought  of  her  only  as  a  brother  thinks  of  a  beautiful 
and  idolized  sister.  It  had  heretofore  been  some  consolation 
to  know  that  his  affections  were  untrammelled  with  thoughts 
of  another,  that  she  alone  was  the  object  of  his  Jove,  and 
hope  had  sometimes  faintly  whispered  of  what  perchance 
might  be  ;  but  from  that  dream  she  was  waking  now,  and 
her  face  grew  whiter  still,  as  there  came  to  her  from  time 
to  time  letters  fraught  with  praises  of  Margaret  Miller  ;  and 
if  in  Rose  Warner's  nature,  there  had  been  a  particle  of  bit 
terness,  it  would  have  been  called  forth  toward  one  who, 
she  foresaw,  would  be  her  rival.  But  Rose  knew  no  malice, 
and  she  felt  that  she  would  sooner  die  than  do  aught  to  mar 
the  happiness  of  Maggie  Miller. 

For  nearly  two  weeks  she  had  not  heard  from  Henry,  and 
she  was  beginning  to  feel  very  anxious,  when  one  morning, 
two  or  three  days  succeeding  the  memorable  Hillsdale  cele 
bration,  as  she  sat  in  a  small  arbor  so  thickly  overgrown  with 
the  Michigan  rose  as  to  render  her  invisible  at  a  little  dis 
tance,  she  was  startled  by  hearing  him  call  her  name,  as  he 
came  in  quest  of  her  down  the  garden  walk.  The  next  mo 
ment  he  held  her  in  his  arms,  kissing  her  forehead,  her  lips, 
her  cheek  ;  then  holding  her  off,  he  looked  to  see  if  there 
had  been  in  her  aught  of  change  since  last  they  met. 

"  You  are  paler  than  you  were,  Rose  darling,"  he  said, 
"  and  your  eyes  look  as  if  they  had  of  late  been  used  to  tears. 
What  is  it  dearest  ?  What  troubles  you  ?" 

Rose  could  not  answer  immediately,  for  his  sudden  coming 
bad  taken  away  her  breath,  and  as  he  saw  a  faint  blush 
stealing  over  her  face,  he  continued,  "  Can  it  be  my  little 
Bister  has  been  falling  in  love  during  my  absence  ?" 

Never  before  had  he  spoken  to  her  thus  ;  but  a  change 


had  coine  over  him,  his  heart  was  full  of  a  beautiful  image, 
and  fancying  Rose  might  have  followed  his  example,  he 
asked  her  the  question  he  did,  without,  however,  expecting 
or  receiving  a  definite  answer. 

"  T  am  so  lonely,  Henry,  when  you  are  gone  and  do  not 
(\rite  to  me  I"  she  said  ;  and  in  the  tones  of  her  voice,  there 
was  a  slight  reproof  which  Henry  felt  keenly. 

He  had  been  so  engrossed  with  Maggie  Miller,  and  the 
free  joyous  life  he  led  in  the  Hillsdale  woods,  that  for  a  time 
he  had  neglected  Rose,  who,  in  his  absence,  depended  so 
much  on  his  letters  for  comfort. 

"  I  have  been  very  selfish,  I  know,"  he  said  ;  "  but  I  was 
so  happy,  that  for  a  time  I  forgot  everything  save  Maggie 
Miller." 

An  involuntary  shudder  ran  through  Rose's  slender  form  ; 
but  conquering  her  emotion,  she  answered  calmly.  "  What 
of  this  Maggie  Miller  ?  Tell  me  of  her,  will  you  ?" 

Winding  his  arm  around  her  waist,  and  drawing  her 
closely  to  his  side,  Henry  Warner  rested  her  head  upon  hia 
bosom,  where  it  had  often  lain,  and  smoothing  her  goldea 
curls,  told  her  of  Maggie  Miller,  of  her  queenly  beauty,  of 
her  dashing,  independent  spirit ;  her  frank,  ingenuous  manner; 
her  kindness  of  heart,  and  last  of  all,  bending  very  low,  lest 
the  vine  leaves  and  the  fair  blossoms  of  the  rose  should 
hear,  hs  told  her  of  his  love,  and  Rose,  the  fairest  flower  of 
all  which  bloomed  around  that  bower,  clasped  her  hand  upon 
her  heart,  lest  he  should  see  its  wild  throbbings,  and  forc 
ing  back  the  tears  which  moistened  her  long  eyelashes,  list 
ened  to  the  knell  of  all  her  hopes.  Henceforth  her  love  for 
him  must  be  an  idle  mockery,  and  the  time  would  come, 
when  to  love  him  as  she  loved  him  then,  would  be  a  sin,  a 
wrong  to  herself,  a  wrong  to  him,  and  a  wrong  to  Maggie 
Miller. 


282  MAGGIE    MILLER. 

"  You  are  surely  not  asleep,"  he  said  at  last,  as  she  made 
him  no  reply,  and  bending  forward,  he  saw  the  tear  drops 
resting  on  her  cheek.  "Not  asleep,  but  weeping!"  he  ex 
claimed.  "  What  is  it,  darling  ?  What  troubles  you  ?" 
And  lifting  up  her  head,  Rose  Warren  answered,  "I  waa 
thinking  how  this  new  love  of  yours  would  take  you  from  me 
and  I  should  be  alone." 

"  No,  not  alone,"  he  said,  wiping  her  tears  away.  "  Mag 
gie  and  I  have  arranged  that  matter.  You  are  to  live  with 
us,  and  instead  of  losing  me,  you  are  to  gain  another — 
a  sister,  Rose.  You  have  often  wished  you  had  one, 
and  you  could  surely  find  none  worthier  than  Maggie 
Miller.'' 

"  Will  she  watch  over  you,  Henry  ?  Will  she  be  to  you 
what  your  wife  should  be  ?';  asked  Rose ;  and  Henry 
answered,  "  She  is  not  at  all  like  you,  my  little  sister.  She 
relies  implicitly  upon  my  judgment  ;  so  you  see  I  shall  need 
your  blessed  influence  all  the  same,  to  make  me  what  your 
brother  and  Maggie's  husband  ought  M  be." 

"  Did  she  send  me  no  message  ?"  asked  Rose  ;  and  taking 
out  the  tiny  note,  Henry  passed  it  to  her,  just  as  his  aunt 
called  to  him  from  the  house,  whither  he  went,  leaving  her 
alone. 

There  were  blinding  tears  in  Rose's  eyes  as  she  read  the 
few  lines,  and  involuntarily  she  pressed  her  lips  to  the  paper, 
which  she  knew  had  been  touched  by  Maggie  Miller's  hands. 

"My  sister, — sister  Maggie,"  she  repeated,  and  at  the 
sound  of  that  name  her  fast-beating  heart  grew  still,  for 
they  seemed  very  sweet  to  her,  those  words  "  my  sister/ 
thrilling  her  with  a  new  and  strange  emotion,  and  awaken 
ing  within  her  a  germ  of  the  deep,  undying  love,  she  was 
yet  to  feel  for  her  who  had  traced  those  words,  and  aske<] 
to  be  her  sister,  "  I  will  do  right,"  she  thought,  "  I  will 


ROSE    WARXER.  283 

conquer  this  foolish  heart  of  mine,  or  break  it  in  the  strag 
gle,  aud  Henry  Warner  shall  never  know  how  sorely  it  was 
wrung." 

The  resolution  gave  her  strength,  and  rising  up,  she  too 
Bought  the  house,  where,  retiring  to  her  room,  she  penned  a 
hasty  note  to  Maggie,  growing  calmer  with  each  word  she 
wrote. 

"  I  grant  your  request,"  she  said,  "  aud  take  you  for  a 
sister  well  beloved.  I  had  a  half-sister  once,  they  say,  but 
she  died  when  a  little  babe.  I  never  looked  upon  her  face, 
and  connected  with  her  birth  there  was  too  much  of  sorrow 
and  humiliation  for  me  to  think  much  of  her,  save  as  of  one 
who,  under  other  circumstances,  might  have  been  dear  to 
me.  And  yet,  as  I  grow  older,  I  often  find  myself  wishing 
she  had  lived,  for  my  father's  blood  was  in  her  veins.  But 
I  do  not  even  know  where  her  grave  was  made,  for  we  only 
heard  one  winter  morning,  years  ago,  that  she  was  dead, 
with  the  mother  who  bore  her.  Forgive  me,  Maggie  dear, 
for  saying  so  much  about  that  little  child.  Thoughts  of 
you,  who  are  to  be  my  sister,  make  me  think  of  her,  who, 
had  she  lived,  would  have  been  a  young  lady  now,  nearly 
your  own  age.  So  in  the  place  of  her,  whom,  knowing,  I 
would  have  loved,  I  adopt  you,  sweet  Maggie  Miller,  my 
sister  and  my  friend.  May  heaven's  choicest  blessings  rest 
on  you  forever,  aud  no  shadow  come  between  you  and  the 
one  you  have  chosen  for  your  husband.  To  rny  partial  eyea 
he  is  worthy  of  you,  Maggie,  royal  in  bearing  and  queenly 
in  form  though  you  be,  and  that  you  may  be  happy  with 
him  will  be  the  daily  prayer  of  'Ro3E.'" 

The  letter  was  finished,  and  Rose  gave  it  to  her  brother, 
who,  after  its  perusal,  kissed  her  saying,  "  It  is  right,  my 


284  MAGGIE    MILLER. 

darling.  I  will  send  it  to-morrow  with  mine  ;  and  now  foi 
a  ride.  I  will  see  what  a  little  exercise  can  do  for  you.  I 
do  not  like  the  color  of  your  face." 

But  neither  the  fragrant  summer  air,  nor  yet  the  presence 
of  Henry  Warner,  who  tarried  several  days,  could  rouse 
the  drooping  Rose  ;  and  when  at  last  she  was  left  alone, 
6he  sought  her  bed,  where  for  many  weeks  she  hovered  be 
tween  life  and  death,  while  her.  brother  and  her  aunt  hung 
over  her  pillow,  and  Maggie,  from  her  woodland  home,  sent 
many  an  anxious  inquiry  and  message  of  love  to  the  sick 
girl.  In  the  close  atmosphere  of  his  counting-room,  George 
Douglas,  too,  again  battled  manfully  with  his  olden  love, 
listening  each  day  to  hear  that  she  was  dead.  But  not  thus 
early  was  Rose  to  die,  and  with  the  waning  summer  days 
she  came  slowly  back  to  life.  More  beautiful  than  ever, 
because  more  ethereal  and  fair,  she  walked  the  earth  like 
one  who,  having  struggled  with  a  mighty  sorrow,  had  won 
the  victory  at  last  ;  and  Henry  Warner,  when  he  looked  on 
her  sweet,  placid  face,  and  listened  to  her  voico  as  she  made 
plans  for  the  future,  when  "  Maggie  would  be  his  wife," 
dreamed  not  of  the  grave  hidden  in  the  deep  recesses  of 
her  heart,  where  grew  no  flower  of  hope  or  semblance  of 
earthly  joy. 

Thus  little  know  mankind  of  each  other  I 


EXPECTED    GUESTS.  S8S 


CHAPTER  X. 

EXPECTED     GUESTS. 

ON  the  Hillsdale  hills  the  October  sun  was  shining,  and 
the  forest  trees  were  donning  their  robes  of  scarlet  and 
brown,  when  again  the  old  stone  house  presented  an  air  of 
joyous  expectancy.  The  large,  dark  parlors  were  thrown 
open,  the  best  chambers  were  aired,  the  bright,  autumnal 
flowers  were  gathered  and  in  tastefully  arranged  bouquets 
adorned  the  mantels,  while  Theo  and  Maggie,  in  their  best 
attire,  flitted  uneasily  from  room  to  room,  running  sometimes 
to  the  gate  to  look  down  the  grassy  road,  which  led  from 
the  highway,  and  again  mounting  the  tower  stairs  to  obtain 
a  more  extended  view. 

In  her  pleasant  apartment,  where  last  we  left  her  with  a 
sprained  ankle,  Mrs.  Jeffrey,  too-,  fidgeted  about,  half  sym 
pathizing  with  her  pupils  in  their  happiness,  and  half  re 
gretting  the  cause  of  that  happiness,  which  was  the  expect 
ed  arrival  of  George  Douglas  and  Henry  Warner,  who, 
true  to  their  promise,  were  coming  again  "  to  try  for  a 
week  the  Hillsdale  air,  and  retrieve  their  character  as  fast 
young  men."  So,  at  least,  they  told  Mrs.  Jeffrey,  who, 
mindful  of  her  exploit  with  the  banner  and  wishing  to  make 
some  amends,  met  them  alone  on  the  threshold,  Maggie  hav- 
ing  at  the  last  moment  ran  away,  while  Theo  sat  in  a  state 
of  dignified  perturbation  upon  the  sofa. 


286  MAGGIE    MILLER. 

A  few  days  prior  to  their  arrival,  letters  had  been  received 
from  Madam  Conway,  saying  she  should  probably  remain  in 
England  two  or  three  weeks  longer,  and  thus  the  house  waa 
again  clear  to  the  young  men,  who,  forgetting  to  retrieve 
their  characters,  fairly  outdid  all  they  had  done  before.  The 
weather  \v as  remarkably  clear  and  bracing,  and  the  greater 
part  of  each  day  was  spent  in  the  open  air,  either  in  fishing, 
riding,  or  hunting  ;  Maggie  teaching  Henry  Warner  how  to 
ride  and  leap,  while  he  in  turn  taught  her  to  shoot  a  bird 
upon  the  wing,  until  the  pupil  was  equal  to  her  master  !  In 
these  out-door  excursions  George  Douglas  and  Theo  did 
not  always  join,  for  he  had  something  to  say,  which  he 
would  rather  tell  her  in  the  silent  parlor,  and  which,  when 
told,  furnished  food  for  many  a  quiet  conversation  ;  so 
Henry  and  Maggie  rode  oftentimes  alone  ;  and  old  Hagar, 
when  she  saw  them  dashing  past  her  door,  Maggie  usually 
taking  the  lead,  would  shake  her  head  and  mutter  to  herself 
'  'Twill  never  do — that  match.  He  ought  to  hold  her  back, 
instead  of  leading  her  on.  I  wish  Madam  Couway  would 
come  home  and  end  it." 

Mrs.  Jeffrey  wished  so  too,  as  night  after  night  her  slum 
bers  were  disturbed  by  the  sounds  of  merriment  which  came 
up  to  her  from  the  parlor  below,  where  the  young  people 
were  "  enjoying  themselves,"  as  Maggie  said,  when  reproved 
for  the  noisy  revel.  The  day  previous  to  the  one  set  for 
their  departure  chanced  to  be  Henry  Warner's  twenty-seventh 
birth-day,  and  this  Maggie  resolved  to  honor  with  an  extra 
supper,  which  was  served  at  an  unusually  late  hour  in  the 
dining-room,  the  door  of  which  opened  out  upon  a  closely 
latticed  piazza. 

"  1  wish  we  could  think  of  something  new  to  do,"  said 
Maggie  as  she  presided  at  the  table,  "something  real  funny;" 
then,  as  her  eyes  fell  upon  the  dark  piazza,  where  a  single 


EXPECTED    GUESTS.  887 

light  was  burning  dimly  ;  sheexclaimed,  "  Why  can't  we 
get  up  tableaux  ?  There  are  heaps  of  the  queerest  clothes  in 
the  big  oaken  chest  in  the  garret.  The  servants  can  be 
audience,  and  they  need  some  recreation  I" 

The  suggestion  was  at  once  approved,  and  in  half  an 
hour's  time  the  floor  was  strewn  with  garments  of  every  con- 
conceivable  fashion,  from  long  stockings  and  small-clothes 
tc  scarlet  cloaks  and  gored  skirts,  the  latter  of  which  were 
immediately  donned  by  Henry  Warner,  to  the  infinite  de 
light  of  the  servants,  who  enjoyed  seeing  the  grotesque  cos 
tumes,  even  if  they  did  not  exactly  understand  what  the 
tableaux  were  intended  to  represent.  The  banner,  too,  was 
brought  out,  and  after  bearing  a  conspicuous  part  in  the  per 
formance,  was  placed  at  the  end  of  the  dining-room,  where 
it  would  be  the  first  thing  visible  to  a  person  opening  the 
door  opposite.  At  a  late  hour  the  servants  retired,  and 
then  George  Douglas,  who  took  kindly  to  the  luscious  old 
wine,  which  Maggie  again  had  brought  from  her  grand 
mother's  choicest  store,  filled  a  goblet  to  the  brim,  and 
pledging  first  the  health  of  the  young  girls,  drank  to  "  the 
old  lady  across  the  water,"  with  whose  goods  they  were 
thus  making  fyee  ! 

Henry  Warner  rarely  tasted  wine,  for  though  miles  away 
from  Rose,  her  influence  was  around  him — so,  filling  hia 
glass  with  water,  he,  too,  drank  to  the  wish  that  "  the  lady 
across  the  sea  would  remain  there  yet  awhile,  or  at  all  events 
not  stumble  upon  us  to-night  I" 

"  What  if  she  should  !"  thought  Maggie,  glancing  around 
at  the  different  articles  scattered  all  over  the  floor,  and 
laughing  as  she  saw  in  fancy  her  grandmother's  look  of  dis 
may,  should  she  by  any  possible  chance  obtain  a  view  of  the 
room,  where  perfect  order  and  quiet  had  been  wont  to  reign. 

But  the  good  lady  was  undoubtedly  taking  her  morning 


5S8  MAGGIE    MILLER. 

flap  on  the  shores  of  old  England.  There  was  no  danger  to 
be  apprehended  from  her  unexpected  arrival,  they  thought ; 
and  just  as  the  clock  struck  one,  the  young  men  sought  their 
rooms,  greatly  to  the  relief  of  Mrs.  Jeffrey,  who  in  her  long 
tight  robes,  with  streaming  candle  in  hand,  had  more  than 
a  dozen  times  leaned  over  the  banister,  wondering  "  if  the 
carouse  would  ever  end." 

It  did  end  at  last,  and  tired  and  sleepy,  Theo  went 
directly  to  her  chamber,  while  Maggie  staid  below,  thinking 
to  arrange  matters  a  little,  for  their  guests  were  to  leave  on 
the  first  train,  and  she  had  ordered  an  early  breakfast. 
But  it  was  a  hopeless  task,  the  putting  of  that  room  to 
rights  ;  and  trusting  much  to  the  good  nature  of  the  house 
keeper,  she  finally  gave  it  up  and  went  to  bed,  forgetting  in 
her  drowsiness  to  fasten  the  outer  door,  or  yet  to  extinguish 
the  lamp  which  burned  upon  the  side-board. 


UNEXPECTED    GUESTS.  289 


CHAPTER  XI. 

UNEXPECTED     GUESTS. 

AT  the  delightful  country  seat  of  Arthur  Carroll  ton,  Ma 
<?aru  Conway  had  passed  many  pleasant  days,  and  was  fully 
intending  to  while  away  several  more,  when  an  unexpected 
summons  from  his  father  made  it  necessary  for  the  young 
man  to  go  immediately  to  London,  and  as  an  American 
steamer  was  about  to  leave  the  port  of  Liverpool,  Madam 
Couway  determined  to  start  for  home  at  once.  Accordingly 
she  wrote  for  Anna  Jeffrey,  whom  she  had  promised  to  take 
with  her,  to  meet  her  in  Liverpool,  and  a  few  days  previous 
to  the  arrival  of  George  Douglas  and  Henry  Warner  at 
Hillsdale,  the  two  ladies  embarked  with  an  endless  variety 
of  luggage,  to  say  nothing  of  Miss  Anna's  guitar-case,  bird 
cage  and  favorite  lap-dog  "  Lottie  " 

Once  fairly  on  the  sea,  Madam  Conway  became  exceed 
ingly  impatient  and  disagreeable,  complaining  both  of  fare 
and  speed,  and  at  length  came  on  deck  one  morning  with 
the  firm  belief  that  something  dreadful  had  happened  to 
Maggie  !  She  was  dangerously  sick,  she  knew,  for  never 
but  once  before  had  she  been  visited  with  a  like  presenti 
ment,  and  that  was  just  before  her  daughter  died.  Then  it 
came  to  her  just  as  this  had  done,  in  her  sleep,  and  very 
nervously  the  lady  paced  the  vessel's  deck,  counting  the 
days  as  they  passed,  and  almost  weeping  for  joy  when  told 

13 


S90  MAGGIE    MILLER. 

Boston  was  it  sight.  Immediately  after  landing,  she  made 
inquiries  as  to  when  the  next  train  parsing  Hillsdale  station 
would  leave  the  city,  and  though  it  was  midnight,  sho 
resolved  at  all  hazards  to  go  on,  for  if  Maggie  were  really 
ill,  there  was  no  time  to  be  lost  ! 

Accordingly,  when  at  four  o'clock  A.M.  Maggie,  who 
was  partially  awake,  heard  in  the  distance  the  shrill  scream 
of  the  engine,  as  the  night  express  thundered  through  the 
town,  she  little  dreamed  of  the  boxes,  bundles,  trunks  and 
bags,  which  lined  the  platform  of  Hillsdale  station,  nor  yet 
of  the  resolute  woman  in  brown,  who  persevered  until  a  rude 
one  horse  wagon  was  found  in  which  to  transport  herself  and 
her  baggage  to  the  old  stone  house.  The  driver  of  the  vehi 
cle  in  which,  under  ordinary  circumstances,  Madam  Conway 
would  have  scorned  to  ride,  was  a  long,  lean,  half-witted 
fellow,  utterly  unfitted  for  his  business.  Still,  he  managed 
quite  well  until  they  turned  into  the  grassy  by-road,  and 
Madam  Couvvay  saw  through  the  darkness  the  light  which 
Maggie  had  inadvertently  left  within  the  dining-room  ! 

There  was  no  longer  a  shadow  of  uncertainty  ;  "  Marga 
ret  was  dead,"  and  the  lank  Tim  was  ordered  to  drive 
faster,  or  the  excited  woman,  perched  on  one  of  her  travel 
ling  trunks,  would  be  obliged  to  foot  it  1  A  few  vigorous 
strokes  of  the  whip  set  the  sorrel  horse  into  a  canter,  and  as 
the  night  was  dark,  and  the  road  wound  round  among  the 
trees,  it  is  not  at  all  surprising  that  Madam  Conway,  with 
her  eye  still  on  the  beacon  light,  found  herself  seated  rather 
unceremoniously  in  the  midst  of  a  brush  heap,  her  goods  and 
chattels  rolling  promiscuously  around  her,  while  lying  across 
a  log,  her  right  hand  clutching  at  the  bird-cage,  and  her 
left  grasping  the  shaggy  hide  of  Lottie,  who  yelled  most 
furiously,  was  Anna  Jeffrey,  half  blinded  with  mud,  acd  bit« 
terlv-  denouncing  American  drivers  and  Yankee  roads  1  To 


UNEXPECTED    GUESTS.  291 

gather  themselves  together  was  not  an  easy  matter,  but  the 
ten  pieces  were  at  last  all  told,  and  then,  holding  up  her 
skirts,  bedraggled  with  dew,  Madam  Conway  resumed  her 
seo.t  in  the  wagon,  which  was  this  time  driven  in  safety  to 
her  door.  Giving  orders  for  her  numerous  boxes  to  be 
Bafely  bestowed,  she  hastened  forward  and  soon  stood  npou 
the  threshold. 

"  Great  Heaven!"  she  exclaimed,  starting  backward  so 
suddenly  that  she  trod  upon  the  foot  of  Lottie,  who  again 
sent  forth  an  outcry,  which  Anna  Jeffrey  managed  to  choke 
down.  "  Is  this  bedlam  or  what  ?"  and  stepping  out  upon 
the  piazza,  she  looked  to  see  if  the  blundering  driver  had 
made  a  mistake.  But  no,  it  was  the  same  old  grey  stone 
housD  she  had  left  some  months  before  ;  and  again  pressing 
boldly  forward,  she  took  the  lamp  from  the  side-board  and 
commenced  to  reconnoitre.  "  My  mother's  wedding  dress, 
as  I  live  1  and  her  scarlet  broadcloth,  too  !"  she  cried,  hold 
ing  to  view  the  garments  which  Henry  Warner  had  thrown 
upon  the  arm  of  the  long  settee.  A  turban  or  cushion, 
which  she  recognized  as  belonging  to  her  grandmother,  next 
caught  her  view,  together  with  the  small-clothes  of  her  sire. 

"  The  entire  contents  of  the  oaken  chest,"  she  continued,  in  a 
tone  far  from  being  calm  and  cool.  "  What  can  have  hap 
pened  !  It's  some  of  that  crazy  Hagar's  work,  I  know. 

I'll  have  her  put  in  the " but  whatever  the  evil  wa3 

which  threatened  Hagar  Warren,  it  was  not  defined  by 
words,  for  at  that  moment  the  indignant  lady  caught  sight 
of  an  empty  bottle,  which  she  instantly  recognized  as  having 
held  her  very  oldest,  choicest  wine.  "The  Lord  help  me  1" 
she  cried,  "  I've  been  rolled  ;"  and  grasping  the  bottle  by 
the  neck,  she  leaned  up  against  the  banner  which  she  had 
not  yet  descried. 

"  In   the   name   of   wonder,    what's   this  1"    she    almost 


292  MAGGIE    MILLER. 

screamed,  as  tbe  full  blaze  of  the  lamp  fell  upon  the  flag, 
revealing  the  truth  at  once,  aud  partially  stopping  her 
breath. 

Robbery  was  nothing  to  iusult,  and  forgetting  entirely  the 
wine,  she  gasped,  "  stars  and  stripes  in  this  house  !  In  the 
house  of  my  grandfather,  as  loyal  a  subject  as  King  George 
ever  boasted  !  What  can  Margaret  be  doing  to  suffer  a 
thing  like  this  ?" 

A  few  steps  further  on,  and  Margaret  herself  might  have 
been  seen  peering  out  into  the  darkened  upper  hall,  and 
listening  anxiously  to  her  grandmother's  voice.  The  sound 
of  the  rattling  old  wagon  had  aroused  her,  and  curious  to 
know  who  was  stirring  at  this  early  hour,  she  had  cautiously 
opened  her  window,  which  overlooked  the  piazza,  and  to  her 
great  dismay,  had  recognized  her  grandmother  as  she  gave 
orders  concerning  her  baggage.  Flying  back  to  her  room, 
she  awoke  her  sister,  who,  springing  up  in  bed,  whispered 
faintly,  "  Will  she  kill  us  dead,  Maggie  ?  Will  she  kill  ua 
dead  ?" 

"  Pshaw  !  no,"  answered  Maggie,  her  own  courage  rising 
with  Theo's  fears.  "  She'll  have  to  scold  a  spell,  I  suppose, 
but  I  can  coax  her,  I  know  I" 

By  this  time  the  old  lady  was  ascending  the  stairs,  and 
closing  the  door,  Maggie  applied  her  eye  to  the  key-hole, 
listening  breathlessly  for  what  might  follow.  George  Doug 
las  and  Henry  Warner  occupied  separate  rooms,  and  their 
boots  were  now  standing  outside  their  doors,  ready  for  the 
chore  boy,  Jim,  who  thus  earned  a  quarter  every  day 
Stumbling  first  upon  the  pair  belonging  to  George  Douglas, 
the  lady  took  them  up,  ejaculating,  "Boots!  loots!  Yes, 
wen's  boots,  as  I'm  a  living  woman  !  The  like  was  never 
seen  by  me  before  in  this  hall.  Another  pair !"  she  contin 
ued,  as  her  eye  fell  on  those  of  Henry  Warner.  "  Anothei 


UNEXPECTED    GUESTS.  291 

pair,  and  in  the  best  chamber,  too  !  What  will  come  next  ?'; 
A.nd  setting  down  her  light,  she  wiped  the  drops  of  perspira 
tion  from  her  face,  at  the  same  time  looking  around  in 
some  alarm,  lest  the  owners  of  said  boots  should  come 
forth. 

Just  at  that  moment  Mrs.  Jeffrey  appeared.  Alarmed  by 
the  unusual  noise,  and  fancying  the  young  gentlemen  might 
be  robbing  the  house,  as  a  farewell  performance,  she  had 
donned  a  calico  wrapper,  and  tying  a  black  silk  handker 
chief  over  her  cap,  had  taken  her  scissors,  the  only  weapon 
of  defence  she  could  find,  and  thus  equipped  for  battle,  she 
had  sallied  forth.  She  was  prepared  for  burglars — nay,  she 
would  not  have  been  disappointed,  had  she  found  the 
young  men  busily  engaged  in  removing  the  ponderous 
furniture  from  their  rooms  ;  but  the  sight  of  Madam  Con- 
way,  at  that  unseasonable  hour,  was  wholly  unexpected, 
and  in  her  fright  she  dropped  the  lamp  which  she  had  light 
ed  in  place  of  her  candle,  and  which  was  broken  in  frag 
ments,  deluging  the  carpet  with  oil,  and  eliciting  a  fresh 
groan  from  Madam  Couway. 

"Jeffrey,  Jeffrey .'"  she  gasped,  "  what  have  you  done  ?" 

"  Great  goodness  1"  ejaculated  Mrs.  Jeffrey,  remembering 
her  adventure  when  once  before  she  left  her  room  in  the  night. 
"I  certainly  am  the  most  unfortunate  of  mortals.  Catch  me 
out  of  bed  again,  let  what  will  happen  ;"  and  turning,  she 
was  about  to  leave  the  hall,  when  Madam  Conway,  anxious 
to  know  what  had  been  done,  called  her  back,  saying  rather 
indignantly,  "  I'd  like  to  know  whose  house  I  am  in  ?" 

"  A  body  would  suppose  'twas  Miss  Margaret's,  the  way 
she's  conducted,"  answered  Mrs.  Jeffrey  ;  and  Madam  Con« 
way  continued,  pointing  to  the  boots,  "  Who  have  we  here  ? 
These  are  not  Margaret's,  surely  ?" 

"  No,  ma'am,  they  belong  to  the  young  men,  who  hav« 


294  MAGGIE    MILLER. 

turned  the  house  topsy-turvey,  with  their  tableaux,  their 
Revolution  celebration,  their  banner,  and  carousing  gene 
rally,"  said  Mrs.  Jeffrey,  rather  pleased  than  otherwise  at 
being  the  first  to  tell  the  news. 

"  Young  men  /"  repeated  Madam  Conway,  "  what  young 
me:  ?  Where  did  they  come  from,  and  why  are  they  here  ?'•' 

"  They  are  Douglas  <$*  Warner,"  said  Mrs.  Jeffrey,  "  two 
as  big  scapegraces  as  there  are  this  side  of  Old  Bailey — 
that's  what  they  are.  They  came  from  Worcester,  and  if 
I've  any  discernment,  they  are  after  your  girts,  and  your 
girls  are  after  them}' 

"  After  my  girls  !  After  Maggie, !  It  can't  be  possible  1" 
gasped  Madam  Conway,  thinking  of  Arthur  Carrollton. 

"  It's  the  very  truth,  though,"  returned  Mrs.  Jeffrey. 
"  Henry  Warner,  who,  in  my  opinion,  is  the  worst  of  the 
two,  got  to  chasing  Margaret  in  the  woods,  as  long  ago  as 
last  April ;  she  jumped  Gritty  across  the  gorge,  and  he, 
like  a  fool,  jumped  after,  breaking  his  leg  " 

"  Pity  it  hadn't  been  his  neck,"  interrupted  Madam 
Conway,  and  Mrs.  Jeffrey  continued,  "  Of  course  he  waa 
brought  here,  and  Margaret  took  care  of  him.  After  a 
while,  his  comrade  Douglas  came  out,  and  of  all  the  carou 
sals  you  ever  thought  of,  I  reckon  they  had  the  worst 
7Twas  the  4th  of  July,  and  if  you'll  believe  it,  they  made  a 
banner,  and  Maggie  planted  it  herself  on  the  housetop. 
They  went  off  next  morning  ;  but  now  they've  come  again, 
and  last  night  the  row  beat  all.  I  never  got  a  wink  of 
Bleep  till  after  two  o'clock." 

llere,  entirely  out  of  breath,  the  old  lady  paused,  and  going 
to  her  room,  brought  out  a  basin  of  water  and  a  towel,  with 
which  she  tried  to  wipe  off  the  oil.  But  Madam  Conway 
paid  little  heed  to  the  spoiled  carpet,  so  engrossed  was  she 
with  what  she  had  heard. 


[^EXPECTED    GUESTS.  29* 

"  Pin  astonished  at  Margaret's  want  of  discretion/'  said 
she,  "  and  I  depended  so  much  upon  her,  too." 

"  I  always  knew  you  were  deceived  by  her,"  said  Mrs. 
Jeffrey,  still  bending  over  the  oil  ;  "  but  it  wasn't  for  me 
to  say  so,  for  you  are  blinded  towards  that  girl.  She's  got 
some  of  the  queerest  notions,  and  then  she's  so  high  strung. 
She  won't  listen  to  reason.  But  I  did  my  country  good 
service  once.  I  went  up  in  the  dead  of  night  to  take  down 
the  flag,  and  I  don't  regret  it  either,  even  if  it  did  pitch  me 
to  the  bottom  of  the  stairs,  and  sprained  my  ankle." 

"  Served  you  right,"  interposed  Madam  Conway,  who, 
not  at  all  pleased  at  hearing  Margaret  thus  censured,  now 
turned  the  full  force  of  her  wrath  upon  the  poor  little  gov 
erness,  blaming  her  for  having  suffered  such  proceedings. 
"  What  did  Margaret  and  Theo  know,  young  things  as  they 
were  ?  and  what  was  Mrs.  Jeffrey  there  for  if  not  to  keep 
them  circumspect  !  But  instead  of  doing  this,  she  had  un 
doubtedly  encouraged  them  in  their  folly,  and  then  charged 
it  upon  Margaret." 

It  was  in  vain  that  the  greatly  distressed  and  astonished 
lady  protested  her  innocence,  pleading  her  sleepless  nights 
and  lame  ankle  as  proofs  of  having  done  her  duty  ;  Madam 
Conway  would  not  listen.  "  Somebody  was  of  course  to 
blame,"  and  as  it  is  a  long  established  rule,  that  a  part  of 
every  teacher's  duty  is  to  be  responsible  for  the  faults  of  the 
pupils,  so  Madam  Couway  now  continued  to  chide  Mrs. 
Jeffrey  as  the  prime  mover  of  everything,  until  that  lady, 
overwhelmed  with  the  sense  of  injustice  done  her,  left 
the  oil  and  retired  to  her  room,  saying  as  she  closed  the 
door,  "  I  was  never  so  injured  in  all  my  life — never,  to  think 
that  after  all  my  trouble  she  should  charge  it  to  me  !  It 
will  break  my  heart,  I  know.  Where  shall  I  go  for  comfort 
or  rcstT' 


*»6  MAGGIE     MILLER. 

This  last  word  was  opportune  and  -uiggestivp.  If  rest 
could  not  be  found  in  Baxter's  Saints'  Rest,  it  was  not  by  her 
to  be  found  at  all  ;  and  sitting  down  by  the  window  in  the 
grey  dawn  of  the  morning,  she  strove  to  draw  comfort  frcm 
the  words  of  the  good  divine,  but  in  vain.  Tt  had  never 
failed  her  before  ;  but  never  before  had  she  been  so  deeply 
injured,  and  closing  the  volume  at  last,  she  paced  the  floor  iu 
a  very  perturbed  state  of  mind. 

Meantime,  Madam  Conway  had  sought  her  granddaughter's 
chamber,  where  Theo  in  her  fright  had  taken  refuge  under 
the  bed,  while  Maggie  feigned  a  deep,  sound  sleep.  A  few 
vigorous  shakes,  however,  aroused  her,  when  greatly  to  the 
amazement  of  her  grandmother,  she  burst  into  a  merry  laugh, 
and  winding  her  arms  around  the  highly  scandalized  lady's 
neck,  said,  "  Forgive  me,  grandma,  I've  been  awake  ever  since 
you  came  home.  I  did  not  mean  to  leave  the  dining-room 
in  such  disorder,  but  I  was  so  tired,  and  we  had  such  fun — 
hear  me  out,"  she  continued,  laying  her  hand  over  the  mouth 
of  her  grandmother,  who  attempted  to  speak  ;  "  Mrs.  Jeff 
rey  told  you  how  Mr.  Warner  broke  his  leg,  and  was  brought 
here.  He  is  a  real  nice  young  man,  and  so  is  Mr.  Douglas, 
who  came  out  to  see  him.  They  are  partners  in  the  firm  of 
Douglas  &  Co.  Worcester." 

"  Henry  Warner  is  nothing  but  the  Co.  though,  Mr. 
Douglas  owns  the  store,  .and  is  worth  two  hundred  thousand 
dollars  !"  cried  a  smothered  voice  from  under  the  bed  ;  and 
Theo  emerged  into  view,  with  a  feather  or  two  ornamenting 
her  hair,  and  herself  looking  a  little  uneasy  and  fright* 
eaed. 

The  200,000  dollars  produced  a  magical  effect  upon  the 
old  lady,  exonerating  George  Douglas  at  on^e  from  all 
blame.  But  towards  Henry  Warner  she  was  not  thus 
lenient ;  for,  cowardlike,  Theo  charged  him  with  having  sug 


UNEXPECTED    GUESTS.  291 

gested  everything,  even  to  the  cutting  up  of  the  led  coat 
for  a  banner  I 

"  What  I"  fairly  screamed  Madam  Conway,  who  in  her 
hasty  glance  at  the  flag,  had  not  observed  the  material, 
"  not  taken  my  grandfather's  coat  for  a  banner  1" 

"  Yes,  he  did,"  said  Theo,  "  and  Maggie  cut  up  your  blue 
satin  bodice  for  stars,  and  took  one  of  your  fine  linen  sheeta 
for  the  foundation." 

"  The  wretch  !"  exclaimed  Madam  Conway,  stamping  her 
foot  in  her  wrath,  and  thinking  only  of  Henry  Warner. 
"  I'll  turn  him  from  my  door  instantly.  My  blue  satin  bodice, 
indeed  !y 

"  'Twas  I,  grandma — 'twas  I,"  interrupted  Maggie,  look 
ing  reproachfully  at  Theo.  "  'Twas  I,  who  cut  up  the  bod 
ice.  I,  who  brought  down  the  scarlet  coat." 

"And  /  didn't  do  a  thing  but  look  on,"  said  Theo.  "  I 
knew  you'd  be  angry,  and  I  tried  to  make  Maggie  behave 
but  she  wouldn't." 

"  1  don't  know  as  it  is  anything  to  you  what  Maggie  does, 
and  I  think  it  would  look  quite  as  well  in  you,  to  take  part 
of  the  blame  yourself,  instead  of  putting  it  all  upon  your 
sister,"  was  Madam  Con  way's  reply  ;  and  feeling  almost  as 
deeply  injured  as  Mrs.  Jeffrey  herself,  Theo  began  to  cry, 
while,  Maggie  with  a  few  masterly  strokes,  succeeded  in  so 
far  appeasing  the  anger  of  her  grandmother,  that  the  good 
lady  consented  for  the  young  gentlemen  to  stay  to  break 
fast,  saying,  though,  that  "  they  should  decamp  immediate 
ly  after,  and  never  darken  her  doors  again." 

"  But  Mr.  Douglas  is  rich,"  sobbed  Theo  from  behind  her 
pocket  handkerchief,  "  immensely  rich  and  of  a  very  aristo 
cratic  family,  I'm  sure,  else  where  did  he  get  his  money  ?" 

This  remark  was  timely,  and  when,  fifteen  minutes  later, 
Madam  Conway  was  presented  to  the  gentlemen  in  the  hall 

13* 


BD8  MAGGIE    MILLER. 

her  manner  was  far  more  gracious  towards  George  Douglas 
than  it  was  towards  Henry  Warner,  to  whom  she  merely 
nodded,  deigning  no  answer  whatever  to  his  polite  apology 
for  having  made  himself  so  much  at  home  in  her  house. 
The  expression  of  his  mouth  was  as  usual  against  him,  and 
fancying  he  intended  adding  insult  to  injury  by  laughing  in 
her  face,  she  coolly  turned  her  back  upon  him  ere  he  had 
finished  speaking,  and  walked  down  stairs,  leaving  him  to 
wind  up  his  speech  with  "  an  old  she  dragon  .'" 

By  this  time  both  the  sun  and  the  servants  had  arisen, 
the  former  shining  into  the  disorderly  dining-room,  and  dis 
closing  to  the  latter  the  weary  jaded  Anna,  who,  whilfl 
Madam  Conway  was  exploring  the  house,  had  thrown  her 
self  upon  the  lounge,  and  had  fallen  asleep. 

"  Who  is  she,  and  where  did  she  come  from  ?"  was  anx 
iously  inquired,  and  they  were  about  going  in  quest  of  Mar 
garet,  when  their  mistress  appeared  suddenly  in  their  midst,, 
and  their  noisy  demonstrations  of  joyful  surprise  awoke  the 
sleeping  girl,  who,  rubbing  her  red  eyelids,  asked  for  her 
aunt,  and  why  she  did  not  come  to  meet  her. 

"  She  has  been  a  little  excited,  and  forgot  you,  perhaps," 
answered  Madam  Conway,  at  the  same  time  bidding  one 
of  the  servants  to  show  the  young  lady  to  Mrs.  Jeffrey's 
room. 

The  good  lady  had  recovered  her  composure  somewhat, 
and  was  just  wondering  why  her  niece  did  not  come  with 
Madam  Conway  as  had  been  arranged,  when  Anna  appear 
ed,  and  in  her  delight  at  once  more  beholding  a  child  of  her 
Only  sister,  and  her  husband's  brother,  she  forgot  in  a  mea 
sure  how  injured  she  had  felt.  Ere  long  the  breakfast  bell 
rang  ;  but  Anna  declared  herself  too  weary  to  go  down, 
and  as  Mrs.  Jeffrey  felt  that  she  could  not  yet  meet  Madara 
Conway  face  to  face,  they  both  remained  in  their  room, 


[JNEXPECTED    GUESTS.  299 

Anna  again  falling  away  to  sleep,  while  her  aunt  grown  more 
calm,  sought,  and  this  time  found,  comfort  in  her  favorite 
volume.  Very  cool,  indeed,  was  that  breakfast,  partaken  in 
almost  unbroken  silence  below.  The  toast  was  cold,  the 
steak  was  cold,  the  coffee  was  cold,  and  frosty  as  an  icicla 
was  the  lady  who  sat  where  the  merry  Maggie  had  hereto 
fore  presided.  Scarcely  a  jvord  was  spoken  by  any  one  ; 
but  in  the  laughing  eyes  of  Maggie  there  was  a  world  of  fun, 
to  which  the  mischievous  mouth  of  Henry  Warner  responded, 
by  a  curl  exceedingly  annoying  to  his  stately  hostess,  who, 
in  passing  him  his  coffee,  turned  her  head  in  another  direc 
tion  lust  she  should  be  too  civil ! 

Breakfast  being  over,  George  Douglas,  who  began  to 
understand  Madam  Conway  tolerably  well,  asked  of  her  a 
private  interview,  which  was  granted,  when  he  conciliated 
her  first  by  apologizing  for  anything  ungentlemanly  he  might 
have  done  in  her  house,  and  startled  her  next  by  asking  for 
Theo,  as  his  wife. 

"  You  can,"  said  he,  "  easily  ascertain  my  character  and 
standing  in  Worcester,  where  for  the  last  ten  years  I  have 
been  known  first  as  clerk,  then  as  junior  partner,  and  finally 
as  proprietor  of  the  large  establishment  which  I  now  con 
duct." 

Madam  Conway  was  at  first  too  much  astonished  to  speak. 
Had  it  been  Maggie  for  whom  he  asked,  the  matter  would 
have  been  decided  at  once,  for  Maggie  was  her  pet,  her  pride, 
the  intended  bride  of  Arthur  Carrollton  ;  but  Theo  was  a 
different  creature  altogether,  and  though  the  Conway  Hood 
flowing  in  her  veins  entitled  her  to  much  consideration,  she 
was  neither  showy  nor  brilliant,  and  if  she  could  marry 
200,000  dollars,  even  though  it  were  American  coin,  she 
would  perhaps  be  doing  quite  as  well  as  could  be  expected  ! 
So  Madam  Couway  replied  at  last,  that  "  she  would  COD- 


300  MAGGIE    MILLER. 

sider  the  matter,  and  if  she  found  that  Theo's  feelings  were 
fully  enlisted,  she  would  perhaps  return  a  favorable  an?wer 
"  I  know  the  firm  of  Douglas  &  Co.  by  reputation,"  said  she, 
"  and  I  know  it  to  be  a  wealthy  firm  ;  but  with  me,  family  is 
quite  as  important  as  money." 

"  My  family,  madam,  are  certainly  respectable,"  interrup 
ted  George  Douglas,  a  deep  flush  overspreading  his  face. 

He  was  indignant  at  her  presuming  to  question  his 
respectability,  Madam  Conway  thought,  and  so  she  hastened 
to  appease  him,  by  saying,  "  Certainly,  I  have  no  doubt  of 
it.  There  are  marks  by  which  I  can  always  tell." 

George  Douglas  bowed  low  to  the  far-seeing  lady,  while  a 
train  of  thought,  not  altogether  complimentary  to  her  dis 
cernment  in  this  case,  passed  through  his  mind. 

Not  thus  lenient  would  Madam  Conway  have  been  to 
wards  Henry  Warner,  had  he  presumed  to  ask  her  that 
morning  for  Maggie,  but  he  knew  better  than  to  broach  the 
subject  then.  "  He  would  write  to  her,"  he  said,  immedi 
ately  after  his  return  to  Worcester,  and  in  the  meantime, 
Maggie,  if  she  saw  proper,  was  to  prepare  her  grandmother 
for  it  by  herself  announcing  the  engagement.  This,  and 
much  more  he  said  to  Maggie,  as  they  sat  together  in  the 
library,  so  much  absorbed  in  each  other  as  not  to  observe 
the  approach  of  Madam  Conway,  who  entered  the  door  just 
in  time  to  see  Henry  Warner  with  his  arm  around  Maggie's 
waist.  She  was  a  woman  of  bitter  prejudices,  and  had  con 
ceived  a  violent  dislike  for  Henry,  not  only  on  account  of 
the  stars  and  stripes,  but  because  she  read  to  a  certain 
extent  the  true  state  of  affairs.  Her  suspicious  were  now 
confirmed,  and  rapidly  crossing  the  floor,  she  confronted 
him,  saying,  "  let  my  grand-daughter  alone,  young  man,  both 
now,  and  forever." 

Something  of  Hagar's  fiery  spirit  flashed  from  Maggie's 


UNEXPECTED    GUESTS.  SOI 

dark  eyes,  but  forcing  down  her  anger,  she  answered  half 
earnestly,  half  playfully,  "  I  am  nearly  old  en  jugh,  grandma, 
to  decide  that  matter  for  myself." 

A  fierce  expression  of  scorn  passed  over  Madam  Conway's 
face,  and  harsh  words  might  have  ensued  had  not  the  car 
riage  at  that  moment  been  announced-  Wringing  Maggie's 
Land,  Henry  arose  and  left  the  room,  followed  by  the  indig- 
nai/t  lady,  who  would  willingly  have  suffered  him  to  walk, 
but  thinking  200,000  dollars  quite  too  much  money  to  go 
011  foot,  she  had  ordered  her  carriage,  and  both  the  senior 
and  junior  partner  of  Douglas  &  Co.  were  ere  long  riding  a 
necond  time  away  from  the  old  house  by  the  mill. 


MAGGIE    MILLER. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

THE    WATERS    ARE    TROUBLED. 

"  GRANDMA  wishes  to  see  you,  Maggie,  in  her  room,"  said 
Theo  to  her  sister  one  moruiug,  three  days  after  the  depar 
ture  of  their  guests. 

"Wishes  to  see  me!  For  what?"  asked  Maggie;  and 
Theo  answered,  "  I  don't  know,  unless  it  is  to  talk  with 
you  about  Arthur  Carrollton." 

"  Arthur  Carrol  ton  !"  repeated  Maggie.  "  Much  good  it 
will  do  her  to  talk  to  me  of  him.  I  hate  the  very  sound  ol 
his  name;"  and  rising,  she  walked  slowly  to  her  grandmother's 
room,  where  in  her  stiff  brown  satin  dress,  her  golden 
spectacles  planted  firmly  upon  her  nose,  and  the  Valencien 
nes  border  of  her  cap  shading  but  not  concealing  the  de 
termined  look  on  her  face,  Madam  Conway  sat  erect  in  her 
high  backed  chair,  with  an  open  letter  upon  her  lap. 

It  was  from  Henry.  Maggie  knew  his  handwriting  in  a 
moment,  and  there  was  another,  too,  for  her  ;  but  she  was 
too  proud  to  ask  for  it,  and  seating  herself  by  the  window, 
she  waited  for  her  grandmother  to  break  the  silence,  which 
she  did  ere  long  as  follows  : 

41 1  have  just  received  a  letter  from  that  Warner,  asking 
me  to  sanction  an  engagement  which  he  says  exists  between 
twself  and  you.  Is  it  true  ?  Are  you  engaged  to  him?" 

4    I  am,"  answered  Maggie,  playing    nervously  with  tb« 


TUB   WATERS  ARE   TROUBLED.  J>0» 

tassel  of  her  wrapper,  and  wondering  why  Henry  luul  written 
so  soon,  before  she  had  prepared  the  way  by  a  little  judi 
cious  coaxing. 

"  Well  then,"  continued  Madam  Conway,  "  the  sooner  it 
is  broken  the  better.  I  am  astonished  that  you  should  stoop 
to  such  an  act,  and  I  hope  you  are  not  in  earnest." 

"  But  lam"  answered  Maggie,  and  in  the  same  cold,  decid 
ed  manner,  her  grandmother  continued  :  "  Then  nothing 
remains  for  me,  but  to  forbid  your  having  any  communica 
tion  whatever  with  one  whose  conduct  in  my  house  has  been 
so  unpardonably  rude  and  vulgar.  You  will  never  marry  him, 
Margaret,  never  !  Nay,  I  would  sooner  see  you  dead  than 
the  wife  of  that  low,  mean,  impertinent  fellow." 

In  the  large  dark  eyes  there  was  a  gleam  decidedly 
Hagarish  as  Maggie  arose,  and  standing  before  her  grand 
mother,  made  answer  :  "You  must  not,  in  my  presence, 
speak  thus  of  Henry  Warner.  He  is  neither  low,  mean,  vul 
gar,  nor  impertinent.  You  are  prejudiced  against  him,  be 
cause  you  think  him  comparatively  poor,  and  because  he 
has  dared  to  look  at  me,  who  have  yet  to  understand  why 
the  fact  of  my  being  a  Conway,  makes  me  any  better.  I 
have  promised  to  be  Henry  Warner's  wife,  and  Margaret 
Aliller  never  yet  has  broken  her  word." 

"  But  in  this  instance  you  will,"  said  Madam  Conway,  now 
thoroughly  aroused.  "  I  will  never  suffer  it;  and  to  prove  I 
am  in  earnest,  I  will  here,  before  your  face,  burn  the  letter 
he  has  presumed  to  send  you  ;  and  this  I  will  do  to  any 
others  which  may  come  to  you  from  him." 

Maggie  offered  no  remonstrance  ;  but  the  fire  of  a  volcano 
burned  within,  as  she  watched  the  letter  blackening  upoc 
the  coals  ;  arid  when  next  her  eyes  met  those  of  her  grand 
mother,  there  was  in  them  a  fierce,  determined  look,  which 
prompted  that  lady  at  once  to  change  her  tactics,  and  trj 


304  MAGGIE    MILLER. 

the  power  of  persuasion,  rather  than  of  force.  Feigning  a 
emile,  she  said,  "  What  ails  you,  child  ?  You  look  to  me 
like  Hagar.  It  was  wrong  in  me,  perhaps,  to  turn  your 
letter,  and  had  I  reflected  a  moment,  I  might  not  have 
done  it  ;  but  I  cannot  suffer  you  to  receive  any  more.  I 
have  other  prospects  in  view  for  you,  and  have  only  waited  a 
i'avorable  opportunity  to  tell  you  what  they  are.  Sit  down 
by  me,  Margaret,  while  I  talk  with  you  on  the  subject." 

The  burning  of  her  letter  had  affected  Margaret  strangely, 
and  with  a  benumbed  feeling  at  her  heart,  she  sat  down 
without  a  word,  and  listened  patiently  to  praises  long  and 
praises  loud  of  Arthur  Carrollton,  who  was  described  as 
being  every  way  desirable,  both  as  a  friend  and  a  husband. 
"  His  father,  the  elder  Mr.  Carrolltou,  was  an  intimate 
friend  of  my  husband,"  said  Madam  Con  way,  "  and  wishes 
our  families  to  be  more  closely  united,  by  a  marriage  be 
tween  you  and  his  son  Arthur,  who  is  rather  fastidious  in 
his  taste,  and  though  twenty-eight  years  old,  has  never  yet 
seen  a  face  which  suited  him.  Bat  he  is  pleased  with  you, 
Maggie.  He  liked  your  picture,  imperfect  as  it  is,  and  he 
liked  the  tone  of  your  letters,  which  I  read  to  him.  They 
were  so  original,  he  said,  so  much  like  what  he  fancied  you 
to  be.  He  has  a  splendid  country  seat,  and  more  than  one 
nobleman's  daughter  would  gladly  share  it  with  him  ;  but  I 
think  he  fancies  you.  He  has  a  large  estate  near  Montreal, 
and  some  difficulty  connected  with  it  will  ere  long  bring  Lim 
to  America.  Of  course  he  will  visit  here,  and  with  a  little 
tact  on  your  part,  you  can,  I'm  sure,  secure  one  of  the  best 
matches  in  England.  He  is  fine  looking,  too.  I  have  his 
daguerreotype,"  and  opening  her  work-box,  she  drew  it 
forth,  and  held  it  before  Maggie,  who  resolutely  shut  her 
eyes,  lest  she  should  see  the  face  of  one  she  was  so  deter 
mined  to  dislike 


THE   WATERS   ARE   TROUBLED.  301 

"What  do  you  think  of  him?"  asked  Madam  Con  way, 
as  her  -arm  began  to  ache,  and  Maggie  had  not  yet  spoken. 

"  I  haven't  looked  at  him,"  answered  Maggie,  "I  hate 
him,  and  if  he  comes  here  after  me,  I'll  tell  him  so,  too.  I 
hate  Lira  because  he  is  an  Englishman.  I  hate  him  because 
lie  is  aristocratic.  I  hate  him  for  everything,  and  before  I 
marry  him  I'll  run  away  1" 

Here,  wholly  overcome,  Maggie  burst  into  tears,  and  pre 
cipitately  left  the  room.  An  hour  later,  and  Ilagar,  sitting 
by  her  fire,  which  the  coolness  of  the  day  rendered  neces 
sary,  was  startled  by  the  abrupt  entrance  of  Maggie,  who, 
throwing  herself  upon  the  floor,  and  burying  her  face  in  the 
old  woman's  lap,  sobbed  bitterly. 

"  What  is  it,  child  ?  What  is  it,  darling  ?"  asked  Hagar ; 
and  in  a  few  words  Maggie  explained  the  whole.  "  She 
was  persecuted,  dreadfully  persecuted.  Nobody  before  ever 
had  so  much  trouble  as  she.  Grandma  had  burned  a  letter 
from  Henry  Warner,  and  would  not  give  it  to  her.  Grand 
ma  said,  too,  she  should  never  marry  him,  should  never 
write  to  him,  nor  see  anything  he  might  send  to  her.  Oh, 
Hagar,  Hagar,  isn't  it  cruel  ?"  and  the  eyes,  whose  wrath 
ful,  defiant  expression  was  now  quenched  in  tears,  looked 
up  in  Hagar's  face  for  sympathy. 

The  right  chord  was  touched,  and  much  as  Hagar  might 
have  disliked  Henry  Warner,  she  was  his  fast  friend  now. 
Her  mistress's  opposition  and  Maggie's  tears  had  wrought  a 
change,  and  henceforth  all  her  energies  should  be  given  to 
the  advancement  of  the  young  couple's  cause. 

"  I  can  manage  it,"  she  said,  smoothing  the  long  silkeu 
tresses  which  lay  in  disorder  upon  her  lap.  "  Richland  post 
office  is  only  four  miles  from  here  :  I  can  walk  double  that 
distance  easy.  Your  grandmother  never  thinks  of  going 
there,  neither  am  I  known  to- any  one  in  that  neighborhood 


806  MAGGIE    MILLER. 

Write  your  letter  to  Henry  Warner,  and  before  the  sun 
goes  down,  it  shall  be  safe  in  the  letter  box.  He  can  writo 
to  the  same  place,  but  he  had  better  direct  to  me,  as  your 
name  might  excite  suspicion." 

This  plan  seemed  perfectly  feasible  ;  but  it  struck  Maggie 
unpleasantly.  She  had  never  attempted  to  deceive  in  her 
life,  and  she  shrunk  from  the  first  deception.  She  would 
rather,  she  said,  try  again  to  win  her  grandmother's  consent 
But  this  she  found  impossible,  Madam  Convvay  was  deter 
mined,  and  would  not  listen. 

"  It  grieved  her  sorely,"  she  said,  "  thus  to  cross  her  favor 
ite  child,  whom  she  loved  better  than  her  life  ;  but  'twas  for 
her  good,  and  must  be  done." 

So  she  wrote  a  cold,  and  rather  insulting  letter  to  Henry 
Warner,  bidding  him,  as  she  had  once  done  before,  "  let  her 
grand-daughter  alone,"  and  saying  "  it  was  useless  for  him 
to  attempt  anything  secret,  for  Maggie  would  be  closely 
watclled,  the  moment  there  were  indications  of  a  clandes 
tine  correspondence." 

This  letter,  which  was  read  to  Magaret,  destroyed  all 
hope,  and  still  she  wavered,  uncertain  whether  it  would  be 
right  to  deceive  her  grandmother.  But  while  she  was  yet 
undecided,  Hagar's  fingers,  of  late  unused  to  the  pen,  traced 
a  few  lines  to  Henry  Warner,  who  acting  at  once  upon  her 
suggestion,  wrote  to  Margaret  a  letter,  which  he  directed  to 
"  Hagar  Warren,  Richland." 

In  it  he  urged  so  many  reasons  why  Maggie  should  avail 
herself  of  this  opportunity  for  communicating  with  him,  that 
she  yielded  at  last,  and  regularly  each  week,  old  Hagar 
toiled  through  sunshine  and  through  storm  to  the  Richland 
post  office,  feeling  amply  repaid  for  her  trouble,  when  she  saw 
the  bright  expectant  face  which  almost  always  greeted  her 
return.  Occasionally,  by  way  of  lulling  the  suspicious  of 


THE   WATERS   ARE   TROUBLED.  301 

Madam  Con  way,  Henry  would  direct  a  letter  to  Ilillsdale, 
Knowing  full  well  it  would  never  meet  the  eyes  of  Margaret, 
over  whom,  for  the  time  being,  a  spy  had  been  set,  in  the 
person  of  Anna  Jeffrey. 

This  young  lady,  though  but  little  connected  with  oui 
story,  may  perhaps  deserve  a  brief  notice  Older  than 
either  Theo  or  Margaret,  she  was  neither  remarkable  for 
beauty  or  talent.  Dark  haired,  dark  eyed,  dark  browed, 
and  as  the  servants  said,  "dark  in  her  disposition,"  she  was 
naturally  envious  of  those  whose  rank  in  life  entitled  them 
to  more  attention  than  she  was  herself  accustomed  to  re 
ceive.  For  this  reason,  Maggie  Miller  had  from  the  first 
been  to  her  an  object  of  dislike,  and  she  was  well  pleased 
when  Madam  Conway,  after  enjoining  upon  her  the  strict 
est  secrecy,  appointed  her  to  watch  that  young  lady,  and  see 
that  no  letter  was  ever  carried  by  her  to  the  post  office  which 
Madam  Conway  had  not  first  examined.  In  the  snaky 
eyes  there  was  a  look  of  exultation,  as  Anna  Jeffrey  pro 
mised  to  be  faithful  to  her  trust,  and  for  a  time  she  became 
literally  Maggie  Miller's  shadow,  following  her  here,  follow 
ing  her  there,  and  following  her  everywhere,  until  Maggie 
complained  so  bitterly  of  the  annoyance,  that  Madam  Con- 
way  at  last,  feeling  tolerably  sure  that  no  counterplot 
was  intended,  revoked  her  orders,  and  bade  Anna  Jeffrey 
leave  Margaret  free  to  do  as  she  pleased. 

Thus  relieved  from  espionage,  Maggie  became  a  little 
more  like  herself,  though  a  sense  of  the  injustice  done  her 
by  her  grandmother,  together  with  the  deception  she  knew 
she  was  practising,  wore  upon  her  ;  and  the  servants  at 
their  work  listened  in  vain  for  the  merry  laugh  they  had 
loved  so  well  to  hear.  In  the  present  state  of  Margaret's 
feelings,  Madam  Conway  deemed  it  prudent  to  say  nothing 
of  Arthur  Carr  )llton,  whose  name  was  never  mentioned 


SOS  MAGGIE    MILLER. 

save  by  Theo  aud  Anna,  the  latter  of  whom  had  seen  him  in 
England,  and  was  never  so  well  pleased  as  when  talking  of 
his  fine  country  seat,  his  splendid  park,  his  handsome  horses, 
and  last,  though  not  least,  of  himself.  "  He  was,"  she  said, 
"  without  exception,  the  most  elegant  and  aristocratic  young 
man  she  had  ever  seen  ;"  and  then  for  more  than  an  hour,  she 
would  entertain  Theo  with  a  repetition  of  the  many  agree 
able  things  he  had  said  to  her  during  the  one  day  she  had 
spent  at  his  house,  while  Madam  Couway  was  visiting 
there. 

In  perfect  indifference,  Maggie,  who  was  frequently  pres 
ent,  would  listen  to  these  stories,  sometimes  listlessly  tarn- 
ing  the  leaves  of  a  book,  and  again  smiling  scornfully  as  she 
thought  how  impossible  it  was  that  the  fastidious  Arthur 
Carrollton  should  have  been  at  all  pleased  with  a  girl  like 
Anna  Jeffrey  ;  and  positive  as  Maggie  was  that  she  hated 
him,  she  insensibly  began  to  feel  a  very  slight  degree  of  in 
terest  in  him,  "  at  least,  she  would  like  to  know  how  he 
looked  ;"  and  one  day  when  her  grandmother  and  Theo 
were  riding,  she  stole  cautiously  to  the  box  where  she  knew 
his  picture  lay,  and  taking  it  out,  looked  to  see,  "if  he  wero 
eo  very  fine  looking." 

"  Yes  he  was,"  Maggie  acknowledged  that  ;  and  sure  that 
she  hated  him  terribly,  she  lingered  long  over  that  picture, 
admiring  the  classically  shaped  head,  the  finely  cut  mouth, 
and  more  than  all  the  large  dark  eyes  which  seemed  so  full 
of  goodness  and  truth.  "  Pshaw  I"  she  exclaimed,  at  last, 
restoring  the  picture  to  its  place,  "  If  Henry  were  only  a 
little  taller,  and  had  as  handsome  eyes,  he'd  be  a  great  deal 
better  looking.  Any  way,  I  like  him,  and  I  hate,  Arthur 
Carrollton,  who  I  know  is  domineering,  and  would  try  to 
make  me  mind.  He  has  asked  for  my  daguerreotype, 
grandma  says,  one  which  looks  as  I  do  now.  I'll  send  it 


THE   WATERS   ARE   TROUBLED.  SM 

too,"  and  she  burst  into  a  loud  laugh  at  the  novel  idea  which 
had  crossed  her  mind. 

That  day  when  Madam  Conway  returned  from  her  ride, 
she  Tras  surprised  at  Maggie's  proposing  that  Theo  and  her- 
eelf  should  have  their  likenesses  taken  for  Arthur  Carroll- 
tor.. 

"  If  he  wants  my  picture,"  said  she,  "  I  am  willing  he 
shall  have  it.  It  is  all  he'll  ever  get." 

Delighted  at  this  unexpected  concession,  Madam  Conway 
gave  her  consent,  and  the  next  afternoon  found  Theo  and 
Maggie  at  the  daguerrean  gallery  in  Hillsdale,  where  the  lat 
ter  astonished  both  her  sister  and  the  artist  by  declaring  her 
intention  of  not  only  sitting  with  her  bonnet  and  shawl  on  ; 
but  also  of  turning  her  lack  to  the  instrument  1  It  was  in 
vain  that  Theo  remonstrated  !  "  That  position  or  none," 
she  said  ;  and  the  picture  was  accordingly  taken,  presenting 
a  very  correct  likeness  when  finished,  of  a  bonnet,  a  veil,  and 
a  shawl,  beneath  which  Maggie  Miller  was  supposed  to  be. 

Strange  as  it  may  seem,  this  freak  struck  Madam  Conway 
favorably.  Arthur  Carrollton  knew  that  Maggie  was  unlike 
any  other  person,  and  the  joke,  she  thought,  would  increase 
rather  than  diminish  the  interest  he  already  felt  in  her.  So  she 
made  no  objection,  and  in  a  few  days  it  was  on  its  way  to 
England,  together  with  a  lock  of  Hagar's  enow  white  hair, 
which  Maggie  had  coaxed  from  the  old  lady,  and  unknown 
to  her  grandmother,  placed  in  the  casing  at  the  last  mo 
ment. 

Several  weeks  passed  away,  and  then  there  came  an  answer 
—a  letter  so  full  of  wit  and  humor  that  Maggie  confessed 
to  herself  that  he  must  be  very  clever  to  write  so  many 
shrewd  things,  and  be  withal  so  perfectly  refined.  Accom 
panying  the  package,  was  a  small  rosewood  box,  containing 
u  most  exquisite  little  pin  made  of  Ha  gars  frosty  hair,  and 


810  MAGGIE    MILLER. 

richly  ornamented  with  gold.  Not  a  word  was  written  con 
cerning  it,  and  as  Maggie  kept  her  own  counsel,  both  Thea 
and  her  grandmother  marvelled  greatly,  admiring  its  beauty 
and  wondering  for  whom  it  was  intended. 

"  For  me,  of  course,"  said  Madam  Conway.  "The  hair 
is  Lady  Carrollton's,  Arthur's  grandmother.  I  know  it  by  it? 
soft  silky  look.  She  has  sent  it  as  a  token  of  respect,  for 
she  was  always  fond  of  me  ;"  and  going  to  the  glass, 
she  very  complacently  ornamented  her  Honiton  collar  with 
Hagar's  hair,  while  Maggie,  bursting  with  fun,  beat  a  hasty 
retreat  from  the  room,  lest  she  should  betray  herself. 

Thus  the  winter  passed  away,  and  early  in  the  spring, 
George  Douglas,  to  whom  Madam  Conway  had  long  ago 
sent  a  favorable  answer,  came  to  visit  his  betrothed,  bring 
ing  to  Maggie  a  note  from  Rose,  who  had  once  or  twice 
sent  messages  in  Henry's  letters.  She  was  in  Worcester 
now,  and  her  health  was  very  delicate.  "  Sometimes,"  she' 
wrote,  "  I  fear  I  shall  never  see  you,  Maggie  Miller — shall 
never  look  into  your  beautiful  face,  or  listen  to  your  voice  ; 
but  whether  in  heaven  or  on  earth  I  am  first  to  meet  with 
you,  my  heart  claims  you  as  a  sister,  the  one  whom  of  all  the 
sisters  in  the  world  I  would  rather  call  my  own." 

"  Darling  Rose  !"  murmured  Maggie,  pressing  the  deli 
cately  traced  lines  to  her  lips,  "  how  near  she  seems  to  me  I 
nearer  almost  than  Theo  ;"  and  then  involuntarily  her 
thoughts  went  backward  to  the  night  when  Henry  Warner 
first  told  her  of  his  love,  and  when  in  her  dreams  there  had 
been  a  strange  blending  together  of  herself,  of  Rose>  and 
the  little  grave  beneath  the  pine  ! 

But  not  yet  was  that  veil  of  mystery  to  be  lifted.  Hagar'a 
secret  must  be  kept  a  little  longer,  and  unsuspicious  of  the 
truth,  Maggie  Miller  must  dream  on  of  sweet  Rose  Warner, 
whom  she  hopes  one  day  to  call  her  sister  ! 


THE   WATERS   ARE   TROUBLED  81; 

There  was  also  a  message  from  Henry,  and  this  George 
Douglas  delivered  in  secret,  for  he  did  not  care  to  displease 
his  grandmother  elect,  who,  viewing  him  through  a  golden 
netting,  thought  he  was  not  to  be  equalled  by  any  one  ia 
America.  "  So  gentlemanly,"  she  said,  "  and  so  modest, 
too,"  basing  her  last  conclusion  upon  his  evident  unwilling 
ness  to  say  very  much  of  himself  or  his  family.  Concerning 
the  latter  she  had  questioned  him  in  vain,  eliciting  nothing 
save  the  fact  that  they  lived  in  the  country  several  miles 
from  Worcester,  that  his  father  always  staid  at  home,  and 
consequently  his  mother  went  but  little  into  society. 

"  Despises  the  vulgar  herd,  I  dare  say,"  thought  Madam 
Conway,  contemplating  the  pleasure  she  should  undoubtedly 
derive  from  an  acquaintance  with  Mrs.  Douglas,  senior  1 

"  There  was  a  sister,  too,"  he  said,  and  at  this  announce 
ment  Theo  opened  wide  her  blue  eyes,  asking  her  name,  and 
"  why  he  had  never  mentioned  her  before." 

"  I  call  her  Jenny,"  said  he,  coloring  slightly,  and  add 
ing  playfully,  as  he  caressed  Theo's  smooth,  round  cheek, 
"  wives  do  not  usually  like  their  husband's  sisters." 

"But  I  shall  like  her,  I  know,"  said  Theo.  "  She  has  a 
beautiful  name,  Jenny  Douglas — much  prettier  than  Rose 
Warner,  about  whom  Maggie  talks  to  me  so  much." 

A  gathering  frown  on  her  grandmother's  face  warned 
Theo  that  she  had  touched  upon  a  forbidden  subject,  and 
as  Mr.  Douglas  manifested  no  desire  to  continue  the  conver 
sation,  it  ceased  for  a  time,  Theo  wishing  "  she  could  see 
Jenny  Douglas,"  and  George  wondering  what  she  would 
pay  when  she  did  see  her  ! 

For  a  few  days  longer  he  lingered,  and  ere  his  return,  it 
was  arranged  that  early  in  July,  Theo  should  be  his  bride. 
On  the  morning  of  his  departure,  as  he  stood  upon  the  stepa 
alone  with  Madam  Conway,  she  said,  "  I  think  I  can  rely 


812  MAGGIE    MILLER. 

upon  you,  Mr.  Douglas,  not  to  carry  either  letter,  note,  01 
message  from  Maggie  to  that  young  Warner.  I've  forbid 
den  him  my  house,  and  I  mean  what  I  say." 

"  I  assure  you  madam,  she  has  not  asked  me  to  carry 
either,"  answered  George  ;  who,  though  he  knew  perfectly 
well  of  the  secret  correspondence,  had  kept  it  to  himself. 
"  You  mistake  Mr.  Warner,  I  think,"  he  continued,  after 
a  moment.  "I  have  known  him  long  and  esteem  him 
highly." 

"  Tastes  differ,"  returned  Madam  Conway,  coldly.  "No 
man  of  good  breeding  would  presume  to  cut  up  my  grand 
father's  coat,  or  drink  up  my  best  wine." 

"  He  interred  no  disrespect,  I'm  sure,"  answered  George. 
"  He  only  wanted  a  little  fun  with  the  stars  and  stripes." 

"  It  was  fun  for  which  he  will  pay  most  dearly  though," 
answered  Madam  Conway,  as  she  bade  Mr.  Douglas  good 
bye  ;  then  walking  back  to  the  parlor,  she  continued  speak 
ing  to  herself,  "  Stars  and  stripes !"  I'll  teach  him  to 
cut  up  my  blue  bodice  for  fun.  I  wouldn't  give  him  Margaret 
if  his  life  depended  upon  it  ;"  and  sitting  down  she  wrote  to 
Arthur  Carroll  ton,  asking  if  he  really  intended  visitirg 
America,  and  when. 


SOCIETY, 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

SOCIETV. 

DURING  the  remainder  of  the  spring,  matters  at  the  old 
stone  house  proceeded  about  as  usual,  Mag  writing  regular 
ly  to  Henry,  who  as  regularly  answered,  while  old  Hagar 
managed  so  adroitly,  that  no  one  suspected  the  secret  corres 
pondence,  and  Madam  Conway  began  to  hope  her  grand 
daughter  had  forgotten  the  foolish  fancy.  Arthur  Carroll  ton 
had  replied  that  his  visit  to  America,  though  sure  to  take 
place,  was  postponed  indefinitely,  and  so  the  good  lady  had 
nothing,  in  particular,  with  which  to  busy  herself,  save  the 
preparations  for  Theo's  wedding,  which  was  to  take  place 
near  the  first  of  July. 

Though  setting  a  high  value  upon  money,  Madam  Conway 
was  not  penurious,  and  the  bridal  trousseau  far  exceeded 
anything  which  Thco  had  expected.  As  the  young  couple 
were  not  to  keep  house  for  a  time,  a  most  elegant  suite  of 
rooms  had  beeu  selected  in  a  fashionable  hotel  ;  and  deter 
mining  that  Theo  should  not,  in  point  of  dress,  be  rivalled 
by  any  of  her  fellow-boarders,  Madam  Conway  spared 
neither  time  nor  money  in  making  the  outfit  perfect.  So, 
for  weeks,  the  old  stone  house  presented  a  scene  of  grea.t 
confusion.  Chairs,  tables,  lounges  and  piano,  were  piled 
with  finery,  on  which  Anna  Jeffrey  worked  industriously, 
assisted  sometimes  by  her  aunt,  whom  Madam  Couway  pro 

14 


114  MAGGIE    MILLER. 

notmced  altogether  too  superannuated  for  a  governess,  and 
who,  though  really  an  excellent  scholar,  was  herself  far  bet 
ter  pleased  with  muslin  robes  and  satin  bows,  than  with 
French  idioms  and  Latin  verbs.  Perfectly  delighted,  Mag 
joined  in  the  general  excitement,  wondering  occasionally 
-when,  and  where  her  own  bridal  would  be.  Once  she  veir 
tared  to  ask  if  Henry  Warner  and  his  sister  might  be 
invited  to  Theo's  wedding  ;  but  Madam  Conway  answered 
BO  decidedly  in  the  negative,  that  she  gave  it  up,  consoling 
herself  with  thinking  that  she  would  sometime  visit  her  sis 
ter,  and  see  Henry,  m  spite  of  her  grandmother. 

The  marriage  was  very  quiet,  for  Madam  Conway  had  no 
acquaintance,  and  the  family  alone  witnessed  the  ceremony. 
At  first  Madam  Conway  had  hoped  that  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Douglas,  senior,  together  with  their  daughter  Jenny,  would 
be  present,  and  she  had  accordingly  requested  George  to 
invite  them,  feeling  greatly  disappointed  when  she  learned 
that  they  could  not  come. 

"  I  wanted  so  much  to  see  them,"  she  said  to  Mag,  "  and 
know  whether  they  are  worthy  to  be  related  to  the  Conways 
— but  of  course  they  are,  as  much  so  as  any  American 
family.  George  has  every  appearance  of  refinement  and 
high-breeding." 

"  But  his  family,  for  all  that,  may  be  as  ignorant  as 
farmer  Canfield's,"  answered  Mag  ;  to  which  her  grand 
mother  replied,  "  you  needn't  tell  me  that,  for  Pm  not  to  be 
deceived  in  such  matters.  I  can  tell  at  a  glance  if  a  person 
is  low-bojn,  no  matter  what  their  education  or  advantages 
may  have  been, — Who's  that?"  she  added,  quickly  and 
turning  round  she  saw  old  Hagar,  her  eyes  lighted  up,  and 
her  lips  moving  with  an  incoherent  sound,  not  easily  under 
stood  , 

Hagar  had  come  up  to  the  wedding,  and  had  readied  the 


SOCIETY.  S16 

door  of  Madam  Conway's  room  just  in  time  to  hear  the  last 
remark,  which  roused  her  at  once. 

"  Why  don't  she  discover  my  secret,  then,"  she  muttered, 
"  if  she  has  so  much  discernment  ?  Why  don't  she  see  the 
Hagar  blood  in  her  ?  for  it's  there,  plain  as  day  ;"  and  ahs 
glanced  proudly  at  Mag,  who,  in  her  simple  robe  of  white 
was  far  more  beautiful  than  the  bride. 

And  still  Theo,  in  her  handsome  travelling  dress,  was  very 
fair  to  look  upon,  and  George  Douglas  felt  proud,  that  she 
was  his,  resolving,  as  he  kissed  away  the  tears  she  shed  at 
parting,  that  the  vow  he  had  just  made  should  never  be  bro 
ken.  A  few  weeks  of  pleasant  travel  westward,  and  then 
the  newly-wedded  pair  came  back  to  what,  for  a  time,  was 
to  be  their  homo. 

George  Douglas  was  highly  respected  in  Worcester,  both 
as  a  mac  of  honor  and  a  man  of  wealth  ;  consequently, 
every  possible  attention  was  paid  to  Theo,  who  was  petted 
and  admired,  until  she  began  to  wonder  why  neither  Mag, 
nor  yet  her  all-discerning  grandmother,  had  discovered  how 
charming  and  faultless  she  was  ! 

Among  George's  acquaintance,  was  a  Mrs.  Morton,  a  dash 
ing,  fashionable  woman,  who  determined  to  honor  the  bride 
with  a  party,  to  which  all  the  elite  of  Worcester  were  in 
vited,  together  with  many  of  the  Bostonians  Madam 
Conway  and  Mag  were  of  course  upon  the  list,  and  as  time 
ly  notice  was  given  them  by  Theo,  Madam  Conway  went 
twice  to  Springfield  in  quest  of  a  suitable  dress  for  Mag. 
"  She  wanted  something  becoming,"  she  said,  and  a  delicate 
rose-colored  satin,  with  a  handsome  overskirt  of  lace,  was, 
at  last,  decided  upon. 

"  She  must  have  some  pearls  for  her  hair,'1  thought 
Madam  Conway,  and  when  next  Maggie,  who,  girl-like, 
tried  the  effect  of  her  Grst  party  dress  at  least  a  dozen  times, 


816  MAGGIE    MILLER. 

stood  before  the  glass  to  see  "  if  it  were  exactly  the  right 
length,"  she  was  presented  with  the  pearls,  which  Anna  Jef 
frey,  with  a  feeling  of  envy  at  her  heart,  arranged  in  the 
shining  braids  of  her  hair. 

"  Oh,  isn't  it  perfectly  splendid  !"  cried  Mag,  herself  half 
inclined  to  compliment  the  beautiful  image  reflected  in  the 
mirror. 

"  You  ought  to  see  Arthur  Carrollton's  sister,  when  she 
is  dressed,  if  you  think  you  look  handsome,"  answered 
Anna,  adding  that  "  diamonds  were  much  more  fashionable 
than  pearls." 

"  You  have  attended  a  great  many  parties  and  seen  a 
great  deal  of  fashion,  so  I  dare  say  you  are  right,"  Mag 
answered,  ironically  ;  and  then,  as  through  the  open  window 
she  saw  Hagar  approaching,  she  ran  out  upon  the  piazza  to 
Bee  what  the  old  woman  would  say. 

Hagar  had  never  seen  her  thus  before,  and  now,  throwing 
up  her  hands  in  astonishment,  she  involuntarily  dropped 
upon  her  knees,  and  while  the  tears  rained  over  her  time- 
worn  face,  whispered,  "  Hester's  child — my  grand-daughter — 
heaven  be  praised  !" 

"  Do  I  look  pretty  ?"  Margaret  asked  ;  and  Hagar  ans 
wered,  "  More  beautiful  than  any  one  I  ever  saw.  I  wish 
your  mother  could  see  you  now." 

Involuntarily  Maggie  glanced  at  the  tall  marble  gleaming 
through  the  distant  trees,  while  Hagar's  thoughts  were 
down  in  that  other  grave — the  grave  beneath  the  pine. 
The  next  day  was  the  party,  and  at  an  early  hour.  Madam 
Conway  was  ready.  Her  rich  purple  satin  and  Valenciennes 
laces,  with  which  she  hoped  to  impress  Mrs.  Douglas  senior, 
were  carefully  packed  up  together  with  Maggie's  dress  ;  and 
then,  shawled  and  bonneted,  she  waited  impatiently  for  her 
carriage,  which  she  preferred  to  the  cars.  It  came  at  last, 


SOCIETY.  317 

but  in  place  of  John,  the  usual  coachman,  Mike,  a  rathei 
wild  yonth  of  twenty,  was  mounted  upon  the  box.  His 
fa  t  her,  he  said,  had  been  taken  suddenly  ill,  and  had  depu 
ted  him  to  drive. 

For  a  time  Madam  Conway  hesitated,  for  she  knew  Mike's 
one  great  failing,  and  she  hardly  dared  risk  herself  with  him, 
lest  she  should  find  a  seat  less  desirable  even  than  the  mem 
orable  brush-heap.  But  Mike  protested  loudly  to  having 
joined  the  "Sons  of  Temperance"  only  the  night  before, 
and  as  in  his  new  suit  of  blue,  with  shining  brass  buttons, 
he  presented  a  more  stylish  appearance  than  his  father,  his 
mistress  finally  decided  to  try  him,  threatening  all  manner 
of  evil  if,  in  any  way,  he  broke  his  pledge,  either  to  herself 
or  the  "  Sons,"  the  latter  of  whom  had  probably  never 
heard  of  him.  He  was  perfectly  sober  now,  and  drove 
them  safely  to  Worcester,  where  they  soon  found  themselves 
in  Theo's  handsome  rooms.  Her  wrappings  removed  and 
herself  snugly  ensconced  in  a  velvet-cushioned  chair. 
Msrdam  Conway  asked,  "  How  long  before  Mrs.  Douglas, 
senior,  would  probably  arrive." 

A  slight  shadow,  which  no  one  observed,  passed  over 
Theo's  face  as  she  answered,  "  George's  father  seldom 
goes  into  society,  and  consequently,  his  mother  will  not 
come." 

"  Oh,  I  am  so  sorry,"  replied  Madam  Conway,  thinking 
of  the  purple  satin,  and  continuing,  "  Nor  the  young  lady, 
cither  ?" 

"  None  of  them,"  answered  Theo,  adding  hastily,  as  if  to 
change  the  conversation,  "  Isn't  my  piano  perfectly  elegant  ?' 
and  .she  ran  her  fingers  over  an  exquisitely  carved  instrtK 
ment,  which  had  inscribed  upon  it  simply  "  Theo  ;"  and 
then,  as  young  brides  sometimes  will,  she  expatiated  upon 
the  kindness  and  generosity  of  George,  showing,  withal, 


818  MAGGIE    MILLER. 

that  her  love  for  her  husband  was  founded  upon  something 
far  more  substantial  than  family  or  wealth. 

Her  own  happiness,  it  would  seem,  had  rendered  her  less 
selfish  aud  more  thoughtful  for  others  ;  for  once  that  after 
noon,  on  returning  to  her  room  after  a  brief  absence,  shy 
whispered  to  Mag  that  "  some  one  in  the  parlor  below  wished 
to  see  her." 

Then  seating  herself  at  her  grandmother's  feet,  she  enter 
tained  her  so  well  with  a  description  of  her  travels,  that 
the  good  lady  failed  to  observe  the  absence  of  Mag,  who, 
face  to  face  with  llenry  Warner,  was  making  amends  for 
their  long  separation.  Much  they  talked  of  the  past,  and 
then  Henry  spoke  of  the  future  ;  but  of  this  Mag  was  less 
hopeful.  Her  grandmother  would  never  consent  to  their 
marriage,  she  knew — the  stars  and  stripes  had  decided  that 
matter,  even  though  there  were  no  Arthur  Carrollton  across 
the  sea,  and  Mag  sighed  despondingly  as  she  thought  of  the 
long  years  of  single-blessedness  in  store  for  her. 

"  There  is  but  one  alternative  left  then,"  said  Henry. 
"  If  your  grandmother  refuses  her  consent  altogether,  I  must 
take  you  without  her  consent." 

"  I  shan't  run  away,"  said  Mag  ;  "  I  shall  live  an  old 
maid,  and  you  must  live  an  old  bachelor,  until  grandma" 

She  did  not  have  time  to  finish  the  sentence  ere  Henry 
commenced  unfolding  the  following  plan  : —  ' 

"  It  was  necessary,"  he  said,  "  for  either  him  or  Mr.  Doug 
las  to  go  to  Cuba  ;  and,  as  Eose's  health  made  a  change  of 
slimate  advisable  for  her,  George  had  proposed  to  him  to 
go,  and  take  his  sister  there  for  the  winter.  And,  Maggie,* 
he  continued,  "will  you  go,  too  ?  We  are  to  sail  the  middle 
of  October,  stopping  for  a  few  weeks  in  Florida,  until  the 
unhealthy  season  in  Havana  is  passed.  I  will  see  your 
grandmother  to-morrow  morning — will  once  more  honorably 


SOCIETY.  3  It 

ask  her  for  your  hand,  and  if  she  still  refuses,  as  you  think 
she  will,  it  cannot  surely  be  wrong  in  you  to  consult  your 
own  happiness  instead  of  her  prejudices.  I  will  meet  you  at 
old  Hagar's  cabin  at  the  time  appointed.  Eose  and  my 
aunt,  who  is  to  accompany  her,  will  be  in  New  York, 
whither  we  will  go  immediately.  A  few  moments  more  and 
you  will  be  my  wife,  and  beyond  the  control  of  your  grand 
mother.  Do  you  approve  my  plan,  Maggie,  darling  ?  Will 
you  go." 

Maggie  could  not  answer  him  then,  for  an  elopement  was 
something  from  which  she  instinctively  shrunk,  and  with  a 
faint  hope  that  her  grandmother  might  consent,  she  went 
back  to  her  sister's  room,  where  she  had  not  yet  been 
missed.  Very  rapidly  the  remainder  of  the  afternoon  passed 
away,  and  at  an  early  hour,  wishing  to  know  "  exactly  how 
she  was  going  to  look,"  Mag  commenced  her  toilet.  Theo, 
too>,  desirous  of  displaying  her  white  satin  as  long  as  possible, 
began  to  dress;  while  Madam  Con  way,  in  no  haste  to  don 
her  purple  satin,  which  was  uncomfortably  tight,  amused 
herself  by  watching  the  passers  by,  nodding  at  intervals,  in 
her  chair. 

While  thus  occupied,  a  perfumed  note  was  brought  to  her, 
the  contents  of  which  elicited  from  her  an  exclamation  of 
surprise. 

"  Can  it 'be possible!"  she  said;  and  thrusting  the  note  into 
h<  r  pocket,  she  hastily  left  the  room. 

She  was  gone  a  long,  long  time  ;  and  when  at  last  she  re« 
turned,  she  was  evidently  much  excited,  paying  no  attention 
whatever  to  Theo,  who,  in  her  bridal  robes,  looked  charm 
ingly,  but  minutely  inspecting  Mag,  to  see  if  in  her  adorn- 
ings  there  was  aught  out  of  its  place.  Her  dress  was  fault 
less,  and  she  looked  so  radiantly  beautiful,  as  she  stood  before 
her  grand  mother,  that  the  old  lady  kissed  her  fondly. 


•20  MAGGIE    MILLER. 

whispering,  as  she  did  so,  "  Yon  are  indeed  beautiful."  It 
was  a  long  time  ere  Madam  Conway  commenced  her  own 
toilet,  and  then  she  proceeded  so  slowly  that  George 
Donglas  became  impatient,  and  she  finally  suggested  that  he 
and  Theo  should  go  without  her,  sending  the  carriage  back 
for  herself  and  Mag.  Tc  this  proposition  he  at  last  yield- 
rd  ;  and  when  they  were  left  alone,  Madam  Conway  greatly 
Hccelerated  her  movements,  dressing  herself  in  a  few  moments, 
and  then,  much  to  Mag's  surprise,  going  below  without  a 
word  of  explanation.  A  few  moments  only  clasped  ere  a 
servant  was  ?ent  to  Mag  saying  that  her  presence  was  de 
sired  at  No.  40,  a  small  private  parlor,  adjoining  the  public 
d  ra  wi  n  <r-r  ooms. 

"  What  can  it  mean  1  Is  it  possible  that  Henry  is  there?' 
Mag,  asked  herself,  as  with  a  beating  heart  she  descended 
the  stairs. 

A  moment  more,  and  Mag  stood  on  the  threshold  of  No. 
40.  Seated  up  on  the  sofa  was  Madam  Conway,  her  purple 
satin  seeming  to  have  taken  a  wide  sweep,  and  her  face  be 
tokening  the  immense  degree  of  satisfaction  she  felt  in  being 
there  thus  with  the  stylish,  elegant  looking  stranger  who 
stood  at  her  side,  with  his  deep,  expressive  eyes  fixed  upon 
the  door  expectantly.  Maggie  knew  him  in  a  moment- 
knew  it  was  Arthur  Carrollton  ;  and,  turning  pale,  she  start 
ed  backward,  while  he  advanced  forward  and  offering  her 
his  hand, 'looked  down  upon  her  with  a  winning  smile,  saying, 
as  he  did  so,  "  Excuse  my  familiarity.  You  are  Maggie 
Miller,  I  am  sure." 

For  an  instant  Mag  could  not  reply,  but  soon  recovering 
nor  composure,  she  received  the  stranger  gracefully,  and 
then  taking  the  chair  he  politely  brought  her,  she  listened 
while  her  grandmother  told  that  "he  had  arrived  at  Mon 
treal  two  weeks  before  ;  that  he  had  reached  Hillsdale  that 


SOCIETY.  821 

morning,  an  hour  or  two  after  their  departure,  and  learning 
their  destination,  had  followed  them  in  the  cars  ;  that  she 
had  taken  the  liberty  of  informing  Mrs.  Morton  of  his 
arrival,  and  that  lady  had  of  course  extended  to  him  an 
invitation  to  be  present  at  her  party." 

"  Which  invitation  1  accept,  provided  Miss  Maggie  allows 
ine  to  be  her  escort,"  said  the  young  man,  and  again  his 
large,  black  eyes  rested  admiringly  upon  her. 

Mag  had  anticipated  a  long,  quiet  talk  with  Henry  War 
ner,  and,  wishing  the  Englishman  anywhere  but  there,  she 
answered  coldly,  "  I  cannot  well  decline  your  escort,  Mr. 
Carrollton,  so  of  course  I  accept  it." 

Madam  Conway  bit  her  lip,  but  Mr.  Carrollton,  who  waa 
prepared  for  anything  from  Maggie  Miller,  was  not  in  the 
least  displeased,  and,  consulting  his  diamond-set  watch, 
which  pointed  to  nearly  ten,  he  asked  "  if  it  were  not  time  to 
go." 

"  Certainly,"  said  Madam  Conway.  "  You  remain  here* 
Maggie  ;  I  will  bring  down  your  shawl,"  and  she  glided 
from  the  room,  leaving  them  purposely  alone. 

Mag  was  a  good  deal  astonished,  slightly  embarrassed 
and  a  little  provoked,  all  of  which  Arthur  Carrollton  readily 
saw  ;  but  this  did  not  prevent  his  talking  to  her,  and  during 
the  few  minutes  of  Madam  Conway's  absence,  he  decided 
that  neither  Margaret's  beauty,  nor  yet  her  originality,  had 
been  overrated  by  her  partial  grandmother,  while  Mag,  on 
her  part,  mentally  pronounced  him  "  the  finest  looking,  tho 
most  refined,  the  most  gentlemanly,  the  proudest,  and  the 
'itef  idlest  man  she  had  ever  seen  V 

Wholly  unconscious  of  her  cogitation,  he  wrapped  her 
shawl  very  carefully  about  her,  taking  care  to  cover  her 
white  shoulders  from  the  night  air  ;  then  offering  his  arm 
to  her  grandmother,  he  led  the  w%y  to  the  carriage,  whither 

14* 


822  MAGGIE    MILLER. 

Bhc  followed  him,  wondering  if  Henry  would  be  jealous,  and 
thinking  her  first  act  would  be  to  tell  him  "  how  she  hated 
Arthur  Carrollton,  and  always  should  .'" 


It  was  a  gay,  brilliant  scene  which  Mrs.  Morton's  draw 
ing-rootns  presented,  and  as  yet  the  centre  of  attraction, 
Theo,  near  the  door,  was  bowing  to  the  many  strangers  who 
sought  her  acquaintance.  Greatly  she  marvelled  at  the  long 
delay  of  her  grandmother  and  Maggie,  and  she  had  just  sug 
gested  to  Henry  that  he  should  go  in  quest  of  them,  when 
she  saw  her  sister  ascending  the  stairs. 

On  a  sofa  across  the  room,  sat  a  pale,  young  girl,  arrayed 
in  white,  her  silken  curls  falling  around  her  neck  like  a 
golden  shower,  and  her  mournful  eyes  of  blue,  scanning 
eagerly  each  new  comer,  then  with  a  look  of  disappointment 
drooping  beneath  the  long  lashes  which  rested  wearily  upon 
her  colorless  cheek.  It  was  Rose  Warner,  and  the  face  she 
sought  was  Maggie  Miller's.  She  had  seen  no  semblance  of 
it  yet,  for  Henry  had  no  daguerreotype.  Still,  she  felt  sure 
she  would  know  it,  and  when  at  last,  in  all  her  queenly 
beauty,  Maggie  came,  leaning  on  Arthur  Carrollton's  arm, 
Rose's  heart  made  ready  answer  to  the  oft  repeated  question, 
"  who  is  she  ?" 

"Beautiful,  gloriously  beautiful,"  she  whispered  softly, 
while,  from  the  grave  of  her  buried  hopes,  there  came  one 
wild  heart-throb,  one  sudden  burst  of  pain  caused  by  the 
first  sight  of  her  rival,  and  then  Rose  Warner  grew  calm 
again,  and  those  who  saw  the  pressure  of  her  hand  upon 
her  side,  dreamed  not  of  the  fierce  pang  within.  She  had 
asked  her  brother  not  to  tell  Maggie  she  was  to  be  there. 
She  would  rather  watch  her  awhile,  herself  unknown  ;  and 


SOCIETY.  323 

now  with  eager,  curious  eyes,  she  followed  Maggie,  who  was 
quickly  surrounded  by  a  host  of  admirers. 

It  was  Maggie's  first  introduction  iuto  society,  and  yet,  so 
perfect  was  her  intuition  of  what  was  proper,  that  neither 
by  word  or  deed  did  she  do  aught  to  shock  tho  most  fastid 
ious.  It  is  true  her  merry  laugh  more  than  once  rang  out 
above  the  din  of  voices  ;  but  it  was  so  joyous  that  no  one 
objected,  particularly  when  they  looked  iu  her  bright  and 
almost  childish  face.  Arthur  Carroll  ton,  too,  acting  as  her 
escort,  aided  her  materially,  for  it  was  soon  whispered 
around  that  he  was  a  wealthy  Euglishman,  and  many  were 
the  comments  made  upon  the  handsome  couple,  who  seemed 
singularly  adapted  to  each  other.  A  glance  had  convinced 
Arthur  Carrollton,  that  Maggie  was  by  far  the  most  beauti 
ful  lady  present,  and  feeling  that  on  this,  her  first  introduc 
tion  into  society,  she  needed  some  one  to  shield  her,  as  it 
were,  from  the  many  foolish,  flattering  speeches  which  were 
sure  to  be  made  in  her  hearing,  he  kept  her  at  his  side, 
where  she  was  nothing  loth  to  stay  ;  for  notwithstanding 
that  she  "  hated  him  so"  there  was  about  him  a  fascination 
she  did  not  try  to  resist. 

"  They  are  a  splendid  couple,"  thought  Eose,  and  then  she 
looked  to  see  how  Heury  was  affected  by  the  attentions  of 
the  handsome  foreigner. 

But  Henry  was  not  jealous,  and  standing  a  little  aloof,  he 
felt  more  pleasure  than  pain  in  watching  Maggie  as  she  re 
ceived  the  homage  of  the  gay  throng.  Thoughts  similar  to 
those  of  Rose,  however,  forced  themselves  upon  him  as  he 
aaw  the  dignified  bearing  of  Mr.  Carrollton,  and  for  the  first 
time  in  his  life  he  was  conscious  of  an  uncomfortable  feeling 
tf  inferiority  to  something  or  somebody,  he  hardly  knew  what. 
This  feeling,  however,  passed  away  when  Maggie  came  at 
last  to  his  side,  with  her  winning  smile,  and  playful  words 


824  MAGGIE    MILLER. 

Very  closely  Madam  Conway  watched  her  now  ;  but 
Maggie  did  not  heed  it,  and  leaning  on  Henry's  arm,  sht 
seemed  oblivious  to  all  save  him.  After  a  time,  he  led  her 
out  upon  a  side  piazza,  where  they  would  be  comparative!; 
alone.  Observing  that  she  seemed  a  little  chilly,  he  left 
her  for  a  moment,  while  he  went  in  quest  of  her  sh&wl. 
Scarcely  was  he  gone  when  a  slight,  fairy  form  came  flitting 
through  the  moonlight  to  where  Maggie  sat,  and  twining  ita 
snow  white  arms  around  her  neck,  looked  lovingly  into  her 
eyes,  whispering  soft  and  low,  "  My  sister." 

''My  sister!"  How  Maggie's  blood  bounded  at  tho 
sound  of  that  name,  which  even  the  night  wind,  signing 
through  the  trees,  seemed  to  take  up  and  repeat,  "  My  sis 
ter  !"  What  was  there  in  those  words  thus  to  affect  her  ? 
Was  that  fair  young  creature,  who  hung  so  fondly  over  her, 
naught  to  her  save  a  common  stranger  ?  Was  there  no  tie 
oetween  them,  no  bond  of  sympathy  and  love  ?  We  ask 
this  of  you,  our  reader,  and  not  of  Maggie  Miller,  for  to 
her  there  came  no  questioning  like  this.  She  only  knew 
that  every  pulsation  of  her  heart  responded  to  the  name  of 
sister,  when  breathed  by  sweet  Rose  Warner,  and  folding 
her  arms  about  her,  she  pillowed  the  golden  head  upon  her 
bosom,  and  pushing  back  the  clustering  curls,  gazed  long 
and  earnestly  into  a  face  which  seemed  so  heavenly  and 
pure. 

Few  were  the  words  they  uttered  at  first,  for  the  myste 
rious,  invisible  something  which  prompted  each  to  look  into 
the  other's  eyes,  to  clasp  the  other's  hands,  to  kiss  the 
other's  lips,  and  whisper  the  other's  name. 

"  I  have  wished  so  much  to  see  you,  to  know  if  you  are 
worthy  of  iny  noble  brother,"  said  Rose  at  last,  thinkirg 
she  must  say  something  on  the  subject  uppermost  in  boJi 
their  minds 


SOCIETY.  828 

"  And  am  I  worthy  ?"  asked  Maggie,  the  bright  blushes 
stealing  over  her  cheek.  "  Will  you  let  me  be  your  sister?'' 

*'  My  heart  would  claim  you  for  that,  even  though  I  had 
ao  brother,"  answered  Hose,  and  again  her  lips  touched 
'hose  of  Maggie. 

Seeing  them  thus  together,  Heury  tarried  purposely  a 
long  time,  and  when  at  last  he  rejoined  them,  he  proposed 
returning  to  the  drawing-room,  where  many  inquiries  were 
making  for  Maggie. 

"  I  have  looked  for  you  a  long  time,  Miss  Maggie,"  said 
Mr.  Carrollton.  "  I  wish  to  hear  you  play,"  and  taking  her 
arm  in  his,  he  led  her  to  the  piano. 

From  the  moment  of  her  first  introduction  to  him,  Maggie 
had  felt  that  there  was  something  commanding  in  his  man 
ner,  something  she  could  not  disobey  ;  and  now,  though  she 
fancied  it  was  impossible  to  play  before  that  multitude,  she 
seated  herself  mechanically,  and  while  the  keys  swam  before 
her  eyes,  went  through  with  a  difficult  piece,  which  she  had 
never  but  once  before  executed  correctly. 

"  You  have  done  well,  much  better  than  I  anticipated," 
said  Mr.  Carrollton,  again  offering  her  his  arm ;  and  though 
a  little  vexed,  those  few  words  of  commendation  were  worth 
more  to  Maggie  than  the  most  flattering  speech  which 
Henry  Warner  had  ever  made  to  her. 

Soon  after  leaving  the  piano,  a  young  man  approached, 
and  invited  her  to  waltz.  This  was  something  in  which 
Maggie  excelled  ;  for  two  winters  before,  Madam  Couway 
had  hired  a  teacher  to  instruct  her  grand-daughters  in  danc 
ing,  and  she  was  about  to  accept  the  invitation,  when, 
drawing  her  arm  still  closer  within  his  own,  Mr.  Canollton 
looked  down  upon  her,  saying  softly,  "  I  wouldn't." 

Maggie  had  often  waltzed  with  Henry  at  home.  He  saw  no 
harm  in  it,  and  now  when  Arthur  Carrollton  objected,  she 


o2tf  MAGGIE    MILLER. 

was  provoked,  while  at  the  same  time  she  felt  constrained  to 
decline. 

"  Sometime,  when  I  know  you  better,  I  will  explain  to 
you  why  I  do  not  think  it  proper  for  young  girls  to  waltz 
»vith  every  one,"  said  Mr.  Carroll  ton;  and  leading  her  from 
she  drawiug-room,  he  devoted  himself  to  her  for  the  re 
mainder  of  the  evening,  making  himself  so  perfectly  agree 
able,  that  Maggie  forgot  everything,  even  Henry  Warner, 
who  in  the  meantime  had  tried  to  recognize  Madam  Conway 
as  an  acquaintance. 

A  cool  nod,  however,  was  all  the  token  of  recognition  she 
had  to  give  him.  This  state  of  feeling  augured  ill  for  the 
success  of  his  suit;  but  when  at  a  late  hour  that  night,  in 
spite  of  grandmother  or  Englishman,  he  handed  Maggie  to 
the  carriage,  he  whispered  to  her  softly,  "I  will  see  her  to. 
morrow  morning,  and  know  the  worst." 

The  words  caught  the  quick  ear  of  Madame  Conway  ; 
but  not  wishing  Mr.  Carrollton  to  know  there  was  anything  par 
ticular  between  her  grand-daughter  and  Ileury  Warner,  she 
said  nothing,  and  when  arrived  at  last  at  the  hotel,  she  asked 
an  explanation,  Maggie,  who  hurried  off  to  bed,  was  too 
sluepy  to  give  her  any  answer. 

"I  shall  know  before  long,  any  way,  if  he  sees  me  in  the 
morning,"  she  thought,  as  she  heard  a  distant  clock  strike 
two,  and  settling  her  face  into  the  withering  frown  with 
which  she  intended  to  annihilate  Henry  Warner,  the  old 
lady  was  herself,  ere  long,  much  faster  asleep  than  the  young 
girl  at  her  side,  who  was  thinking  of  Henry  Warner,  wish- 
Ing  he  was  three  inches  taller,  or  herself  three  inches  shorter, 
and  wondering  if  his  square  shoulders  would  not  be  some 
what  improved  by  braces! 

"  I  never  noticed  how  short  and  crooked  he  was,"  she 
thought,  "  until  I  saw  him  standing  by  the  side  of  Mr 


SOCIETY,  887 

Parrollton,  who  is  such  a  splendid  figure,  so  tall  .and  straight; 
but  big,  overgrown  girls  like  me,  always  get  short  hus 
bands,  they  say,"  and  satisfied  with  this  conclusion,  she  fell 
asleep. 


228  MAGGIE    MILLEfi. 


CHAPTER    XIV. 

MADAM    CONWAY'S   DISASTERS. 

AT  a  comparatively  early  hour  Madam  Conway  arose, 
and  going  to  the  parlor,  found  there  Arthur  Carrollton,  who 
asked  if  Margaret  were  not  yet  np.  "  Say  that  I  wish 
her  to  ride  with  me  on  horseback,"  said  he.  "  The  morning 
air  will  do  her  good;"  and  quite  delighted,  Madam  Conway 
carried  the  message  to  her  grand-daughter. 

"  Tell  him  I  shan't  do  it,"  answered  the  sleepy  Maggie, 
adjusting  herself  for  another  nap.  Then,  as  she  thought 
how  his  eyes  probably  looked  as  he  said,  "  I  wish  her  to 
ride,"  she  felt  impelled  to  obey,  and  greatly  to  her  grand 
mother's  surprise,  she  commenced  dressing. 

Tlieo's  riding  dress  was  borrowed,  and  though  it  did  not 
lit  her  exactly,  she  looked  unusually  well,  when  she  met  Mr 
Carrollton  in  the  lower  hall,  and  once  mounted  upon  the  gay 
fcteed,  and  galloping  away  into  the  country,  she  felt  more 
than  repaid  for  the  loss  of  her  morning  slumber. 

"  You  ride  well,"  said  Mr.  Carrollton,  when  at  last  they 
paused  upon  the  brow  of  a  hill,  overlooking  the  town,  "but 
Vou  have  some  faults,  which,  with  your  permission  I  will 
correct,"  and  in  the  most  polite  and  gentlemanly  manner,  he 
proceded  to  speak  of  a  few  points  wherein  her  riding  might 
be  improved. 

Among  other  things,  he  said  she  rode  too  fast  for  a  lady  ; 


MADAM    COXWAY'S    DISASTERS.  329 

and  biting  her  lip,  Maggie  thought,  "  If  I  only  had  Gritty 
here,  I'd  lead  him  such  a  race  as  would  either  break  hia 
bunts  or  his  iieckt  I'm  not  particular  which." 

Still,  she  followed  his  directions  implicitly,  and  when,  ere 
they  reached  home,  he  told  her  that  she  excelled  many  who 
had  been  for  years  to  riding  schools,  she  felt  repaid  for  his 
criticisms,  which  she  knew  were  just,  even  if  they  were  not 
agreeable.  Breakfast  being  over,  he  announced  his  iuten- 
tention  of  going  down  to  Boston,  telling  Maggie  he  should 
probably  return  that  evening  and  go  with  her  to  Hillsdale 
on  the  morrow. 

Scarcely  had  he  gone  when  Henry  Warner  appeared,  ask 
ing  an  interview  with  Madam  Conway,  who  haughtily  led 
the  way  into  a  private  room.  Very  candidly  and  honorably 
Henry  made  known  to  her  his  wishes,  whereupon  a  most 
stormy  scene  ensued,  the  lady  so  far  forgetting  herself  as  to 
raise  her  voice  several  notes  above  its  usual  pitch,  while 
Henry,  angered  by  her  insulting  words,  bade  her  take  the 
consequences  of  her  refusal,  hinting  that  girls  had  been 
known  to  marry  without  their  guardian's  consent. 

"  A.n  elopement,  hey  ?  He  threatens  me  with  an  elope 
ment,  does  he  ?"  said  Madam  Conway,  as  the  door  closed 
after  him.  "  I  am  glad  he  warned  me  in  time,"  and  then 
trembling  in  every  limb  lest  Maggie  should  be  spirited  away 
before  her  very  eyes,  she  determined  upon  going  home  im 
mediately,  and  leaving  Arthur  Carrollton  to  follow  in  the 
cars 

A  cordingly  Maggie  was  bidden  to  pack  her  things  at 
once,  the  excited  old  lady  keeping  her  eye  constantly  upon 
her  to  see  that  she  did  not  disappear  through  the  window 
or  some  other  improbable  place.  In  silence  Maggie  obeyed, 
pouting  the  while  a  very  little,  partly  because  she  should 
not  again  see  Henry,  partly  because  she  had  confidertly  ex 


330  MAGGIE    MILLER. 

pected  to  ride  home  with  Mr.  Carrollton  1  and  partly  be> 
cause  she  wished  to  stay  to  the  firemen's  muster,  which  had 
long  been  talked  about,  and  was  to  take  place  on  the  mor- 
ro  x.  They  were  ready  at  last,  and  then  in  a  very  perturbed 
state  of  feeling,  Madam  Conway  waited  for  her  carriage, 
which  was  not  forthcoming,  and  upon  inquiry,  George  Doug 
las  learned  that,  having  counted  upon  another  day  in  the 
city,  Mike  was  now  going  through  with  a  series  of  plunge 
bat/is,  by  way  of  sobering  himself  ere  appearing  before  his 
mistress.  This,  however  George  kept  from  Madam  Conway, 
not  wishing  to  alarm  her  ;  and  when,  after  a  time,  Mike  ap 
peared,  sitting  bolt  upright  upon  the  box,  with  the  lines 
grasped  firmly  in  his  hands,  she  did  not  suspect  the  truth, 
nor  know  that  he,  too,  was  angry  for  being  thus  compelled 
to  go  home  before  he  saw  the  firemen. 

Thinking  v  him  sober  enough  to  be  perfectly  safe,  George 
Douglas  felt  no  fear,  and  bowing  to  his  new  relatives,  went 
back  to  comfort  Theo,  who,  as  a  matter  of  course  cried  a 
little  when  the  carriage  drove  away.  Worcester  was  left 
behind,  and  they  were  far  out  in  the  country  ere  a  word 
was  exchanged  between  Madam  Conway  and  Maggie  ;  for 
while  the  latter  was  pouting  behind  her  veil,  the  former 
was  wondering  what  possessed  Mike  to  drive  into  every  rut 
and  over  every  stone. 

"  You,  Mike,"  she  exclaimed  at  last  leaning  from  the  win 
dow.  "  What  ails  you  ?" 

"  Nothing,  as  I'm  a  living  man,"  answered  Mike,  halting 
BO  suddenly  as  to  jerk  the  lady  backwards  and  mash  the 
crown  of  her  bonnet. 

Straightening  herself  up,  and  trying  in  vain  to  smooth 
the  jam,  Madam  Conway  continued,  "  lu  liquor,  I  know 
I  wish  I  had  staid  at  home  ;"  but  Mike  loudly  denied  the 
charge,  declaring  "  he  had  spent  the  blessed  night  at  a 


MADAM    COXWAY'S    DISASTERS.  381 

meeting  of  the  Sons,  where  they  passed  round  nothing 
stronger  than  lemons  and  water,  and  if  the  horses  chose  to 
run  off  the  track,  'twasiv't  his  fault — he  couldn't  help  it," 
and  with  :he  air  of  one  deeply  injured,  he  again  started  for 
ward,  turning  off  ere  long  into  a  cross  road,  which,  as  they 
advanced,  grew  more  stony  and  rough,  while  the  farm- 
1'ouses,  as  a  general  thing,  presented  a  far  less  respectable 
appearance  than  those  on  the  Hillsdale  route 

"  Mike,  you  villain  !"  ejaculated  the  lady,  as  they  ran 
d  >wn  into  a  ditch,  and  she  sprang  to  one  side  to  keep  the 
cr  rriage  from  going  over. 

But  ere  she  had  time  for  anything  further,  one  of  the  axle- 
ti  ?es  snapped  asunder,  and  to  proceed  further  in  their 
pi  eseut  condition  was  impossible.  Alighting  from  the  car 
riage,  and  setting  her  little  feet  upon  the  ground  with  a 
vengeance,  Madam  Conway  first  scolded  Mike  unmercifully 
for  his  carelessness,  and  next  chided  Maggie  for  manifesting 
no  more  concern. 

"You'd  as  lief  go  to  destruction  as  not,  I  do  believe  !" 
said  she,  looking  carefully  after  the  bandbox  containing  her 
purple  satin. 

"  I'd  rather  go  there  first,"  answered  Maggie,  pointing  to 
a  brown,  old-fashioned  farmhouse,  about  a  quarter  of  a 
mile  away. 

At  first,  Madam  Conway  objected,  saying  she  preferred 
Bitting  on  the  bank  to  intruding  herself  upon  strangers  ;  but 
as  it-  was  now  noon-day,  and  the  warm  September  suu 
poured  fiercely  down  upon  her,  she  finally  concluded  to  fol 
low  Maggie's  advice,  and  gathering  up  her  box  and  parasol 
started  for  the  house,  which,  with  its  tansy  patch  on  the 
right,  and  its  single  poplar  tree  in  front,  presented  rather 
an  uninviting  appearance. 

"Some  vulgar  creatures  live  there,  I  know.     Just  heal 


538  MAGGIE    MILLER. 

that  uld  tin  horn,"  she  exclaimed,  as  a  blast,  loud  and  shrill 
blown  by  practised  lips,  told  to  the  men  in  a  distant  field 
that  dinner  was  ready. 

A  nearer  approach  disclosed  to  view  a  slanting  roofed 
farm-honse,  such  as  is  often  found  in  New  England,  with 
high,  narrow  windows,  small  panes  of  glass,  and  the  most 
indispensable  paper  curtains  of  blue,  closely  shading  the  win 
dows  of  what  was  probably  "  the  best  room."  In  the  apart 
ment  opposite,  however,  they  were  rolled  up,  so  as  to  show 
the  old-fashioned  drapery  of  dimity,  bordered  with  a  netted 
fringe.  Half  a  dozen  broken  pitchers  and  pots  held  gerani 
ums,  verbenas  and  other  plants,  while  the  well  kept  beds  of 
hollyhocks,  sunflowers  and  poppies,  indicated  a  taste  for 
flowers  in  some  one.  Everything  about  the  house  was 
faultlessly  neat.  The  door-sill  was  scrubbed  to  a  chalky- 
white,  while  the  uncovered  floor  wore  the  same  polished  hue. 

All  this  Madam  Conway  saw  at  a  glance,  but  it  did  not 
prevent  her  from  holding  high  her  aristocratic  skirts,  lest 
they  should  be  contaminated,  and  when,  in  answer  to  her 
knock,  an  odd-looking,  peculiarly  dressed  woman  appeared, 
she  uttered  an  exclamation  of  disgust,  and  turning  to  Mag 
gie,  said,  "  You  talk — I  can't  1" 

But  the  woman  did  not  stand  at  all  upon  ceremony. 
For  the  last  ten  minutes  she  had  been  watching  the  stran 
gers  as  they  toiled  over  the  sandy  road,  and  when  sure  they 
were  coming  there,  had  retreated  into  her  bed-room,  donning 
a  flaming  red  calico,  which,  guiltless  of  hoops,  clung  to  her 
tenaciously,  showing  her  form  to  good  advantage,  and  rous 
ing  at  once  the  risibles  of  Maggie.  A  black  lace  cap,  orna 
mented  with  ribbons  of  the  same  fanciful  color  as  the  dress., 
adorned  her  head  ;  and  with  a  dozen  or  more  pins  in  her 
mouth,  she  now  appeared,  hooking  her  sleeve  and  smooth 
lug  down  the  black  collar  upon  her  neck. 


MADAM    CONWAY'S    DISASTERS.  388 

In  a  few  words,  Maggie  explained  to  her  their  misfortune, 
and  asked  permission  to  tarry  there  until  the  carriage  wa? 
repaired. 

"  Certing,  certing,"  answered  the  woman,  courtesying 
almost  to  the  floor.  "  Walk  right  in,  if  you  can  git  in.  It's 
my  cheese  day,  or  I  should  have  been  cleared  away  sooner. 
Here  Betsey  Jane,  you  have  prinked  long  enough  ;  come 
and  hist  the  winders  in  t'other  room,  and  wing  'em  off,  so 
the  ladies  can  set  in  there  out  of  this  dirty  place,"  then 
turning  to  Madam  Conway,  who  was  industriously  freeing 
her  French  kids  from  the  sand  they  had  accumulated  dur 
ing  her  walk,  she  continued.  "Have  some  of  my  shoes  to 
rest  your  feet  a  spell  ;"  and  diving  into  a  recess  or  closet  she 
brought  forth  a  pair  of  slippers  large  enough  to  hold  both  of 
Madam  Con  way's  feet  at  once. 

With  a  haughty  frown  the  lady  declined  the  offer,  while 
Maggie  looked  on  in  delight,  pleased  with  an  adventure  which 
promised  so  much  fun.  After  a  moment,  Betsey  Jane  ap 
peared,  attired  in  a  dress  similar  to  that  of  her  mother,  for 
whose  lank  appearance  she  made  ample  amends  in  the  won 
derful  expansion  of  her  robes,  which  minus  gather  or  fold  at 
the  bottom,  set  out  like  a  miniature  tent,  upsetting  at  once 
the  hand-box  which  Madam  Conway  had  placed  upon  a 
chair,  and  which,  with  its  contents,  rolled  promiscuously 
over  the  floor  ! 

"  Betsey  June. !  How  can  you  wear  them  abominable 
things  1"  exclaimed  the  distressed  woman,  stooping  to  pick 
op  the  purple  satin  which  had  tumbled  out. 

A  look  from  the  more  fashionable  daughter,  as  with  a 
swinging  sweep  she  passed  on  into  the  parlor,  silenced  the 
mother  on  the  subject  of  hoops,  and  thinking  her  guests  must 
necessarily  be  thirsty  after  their  walk,  she  brought  them  a 
pitcher  of  water,  asking  if  "  they'd  chuse  it  clear,  or  with  a 


834  MAGGIE    MILLER. 

little  ginger  and  molasses,"  at  the  same  time  calling  to  Bet> 
sey  Jane  to  know  if  them  windows  was  wung  off  1 

The  answer  was  in  the  affirmative,  whereupon  the  ladies 
were  invited  to  enter,  which  they  did  the  more  willingly,  as 
through  the  open  door  they  had  caught  glimpses  of  what 
proved  to  be  a  very  handsome  Brussels  carpet,  which  in 
that  room  seemed  a  little  out  of  place,  as  did  the  sofa,  and 
handsome  hair-cloth  rocking  chair.  In  this  last  Madam 
Conway  seated  herself,  while  Maggie  reclined  upon  a  lounge, 
wondering  at  the  difference  in  the  various  articles  of  furni 
ture,  some  of  which  were  quite  expensive,  while  others  were 
of  the  most  common  kind. 

"  W.ho  can  they  be  ?  She  looks  like  some  one  I  have 
seen,"  said  Maggie  as  Betsey  Jane  left  the  room.  "  I  mean 
to  ask  their  names  ;"  but  this  her  grandmother  would  not  suf 
fer.  "  It  was  too  much  like  familiarity,"  she  said,  "  and 
she  did  not  believe  in  putting  one's  self  on  a  level  with  such 
people." 

Another  loud  blast  from  the  horn  was  blown,  for  the  bust 
ling  woman  of  the  house  was  evidently  getting  uneasy,  and 
ere  long  three  or  four  men  appeared,  washing  themselves 
from  the  spout  of 'the  pump,  and  wiping  upon  a  coarse  towel, 
which  hung  upon  a  roller  near  the  back  door. 

"  I  shan't  eat  at  the  same  table  with  those  creatures," 
said  Madam  Conway,  feeling  intuitively  that  she  would  be 
invited  to  dinner. 

"  Why,  grandma,  yes  you  will,  if  she  asks  you  to,"  an 
swered  Maggie.  "  Only  think  how  kind  they  are  to  us  per 
feet  strangers  1" 

What  else  she  might  have  said  was  prevented  by  the  en 
trance  of  Betsey  Jane,  who  informed  them  that  "  dinner  waa 
ready  ;"  and  with  a  mental  groan,  as  she  thought  how  she 
was  about  to  be  martyred,  Madam  Couway  followed  her  to 


MADAM    COXWAY'S    DISASTERS.  885 

the  dining-room,  where  a  plain  substantial  farmer's  ineal 
was  spread.  Standing  at  the  head  of  the  table,  with  her 
good-humored  face  all  in  a  glow,  was  the  hostess,  who 
pointing  Madam  Coriway  to  a  chair,  said,  "  Now  set  right 
by,  and  make  yourselves  to  hum.  Mebby  I  orto  have  set  the 
table  over,  and  I  guess  I  should  if  I  had  anything  fit  to  eat. 
Be  you  fond  of  biled  victuals  ?"  and  taking  it  for  granted 
they  were,  she  loaded  both  Madam  Conway's  and  Maggie's 
plate  with  every  variety  of  vegetables  used  in  the  prepara 
tion  of  the  dish  known  everywhere  as  "  boiled  victuals." 

By  this  time  the  men  had  ranged  themselves  in  respect 
ful  silence  upon  the  opposite  side  of  the  table,  each  stealing 
an  admiring  though  modest  glance  at  Maggie  ;  for  the  mas 
culine  heart,  whether  it  beat  beneath  a  homespun  frock  or 
coat  of  finest  cloth,  is  alike  susceptible  to  glowing,  youthful 
beauty  like  that  of  Maggie  Miller.  The  head  of  the  house 
was  absent — "had  gone  to  town  with  a  load  of  wood,"  so 
his  spouse  informed  the  ladies,  at  the  same  time  pouring  out 
a  cup  of  tea,  which  she  said  she  had  tried  to*make  strong 
enough  to  bear  up  an  egg.  "  Betsey  Jane,"  she  continued, 
casting  a  deprecating  glance,  first  o,t  the  blue  sugar  bowl 
and  then  at  her  daughter,  "  what  possessed  you  to  put  on 
this  brown  sugar,  when  I  told  you  to  get  crush  ? — Have 
some  of  the  apple  sass  ?  it's  new — made  this  morning. 
Dew  have  some,"  she  continued  as  Madam  Conway  shook 
her  head.  "  Mebby  it's- better  than  it  looks.  Seem's  ef  you 
wasn't  goin'  to  eat  nothin'.  Betsey  Jane,  now  you're  up 
after  the  crush,  fetch  them  china  sassers  for  the  cowcurn- 
bers.  Like  enough  she'll  eat  some  of  them." 

Bat  atfecting  a  headache,  Madam  Conway  declined  every 
thing,  save  the  green  tea  and  a  Boston  cracker,  which,  at 
the  first  mention  of  headache,  the  distressed  woman  had 
brought  her.  Suddenly  remembering  Mike,  who  having 


836  MAGGIE    MILLER. 

fixed  the  carriage,  was  fast  asleep  on  a  wheelbarrow 
under  the  wood-shed,  she  exclaimed,  "  For  the  land  of 
massy,  if  I  hain't  forgot  that  young  gentleman  !  Go,  Wil- 
liam  and  call  him  this  minute.  Are  you  sick  at  your  sto 
mach  ?"  she  asked,  turning  to  Madam  Conway,  who,  at  the 
tb oughts  of  eating  with  her  drunken  coachman,  had  uttered 
Rn  exclamation  of  disgust.  "  Go,  Betsey  Jane,  and  fetch 
the  camphire,  quick  !" 

But  Madam  Conway  did  not  need  the  camphor,  and  so 
she  said,  adding  that  Mike  was  better  where  he  was.  Mike 
thought  so  too,  and  refused  to  come,  whereupon  the  woman 
insisted  that  he  must.  "  There  was  room  enough,"  she 
said,  "  and  no  kind  of  sense  in  Betsey  Jane's  taking  up  tho 
hull  side  of  the  table  with  them  ratans.  She  could  set 
nearer  the  young  lady." 

"  Certainly,"  answered  Maggie,  anxious  to  see  how  the 
ratans  would  manage  to  squeeze  in  between  herself  and  the 
table-leg,  as  they  would  have  to  do  if  they  came  an  inch 
nearer. 

This  feat  could  not  be  done,  and  in  attempting  it  Bet 
sey  Jane  upset  Maggie's  tea  upon  her  handsome  travelling 
dress,  eliciting  from  her  mother  the  exclamation,  "  Betsey 
Jane  Douglas,  you  all  us  was  the  blunderin'est  girl  1" 

This  little  accident  diverted  the  woman's  mind  from  Mike, 
while  Madam  Conway,  starting  at  the  name  of  Douglas, 
thought  to  herself,  "  Douglas  ! — Douglas  1  I  did  not  sup 
pose  'twas  so  common  a  name.  But  then  it  don't  hurt 
fieorge  any,  having  these  creatures  bear  his  name." 

Dinner  being  over,  Madam  Conway  and  Maggie  returned 
to  the  parlor,  where,  while  the  former  resumed  her  chair, 
the  latter  amused  herself  by  examining  the  books  and  odd- 
looking  daguerreotypes  which  lay  upon  the  table. 

"  Oh,  grandmother  /"  she  almost  screamed,  bounding  t« 


MADAME    CONWAY'S    DISASTERS.  837 

that  lady's  side,  "  as  I  live,  here's  a  picture  of  Theo  and- 
George  Douglas  taken  together,"  and  she  held  up  a  hand 
some  casiug  before  the  astonished  old  lady,  who  donning  her 
golden  spectacles  in  a  twinkling  saw  for  herself  that  what 
Maggie  said  was  true. 

"  They  stole  it,"  she  gasped.  "  We  are  in  a  den  of  thieves! 
Who  knows  what  they'll  take  from  my  bandbox  ?"  and  she 
was  about  to  leave  the  room,  when  Maggie,  whose  quick 
mind  saw  farther  ahead,  bade  her  stop. 

"  I  may  discover  something  more,"  said  she,  and  taking  a 
handsomely  bound  volume  of  Lauib,  she  turned  to  the  fly 
leaf,  and  read,  "  Jenny  Douglas,  from  her  brother  George, 
Worcester,  Jan.  8th." 

It  was  plain  to  her  now;  but  any  mortification  she  might 
otherwise  have  experienced  was  lost  in  the  one  absorbing 
thought,  "  What  will  grandma  say  ?" 

"  Grandmother,"  said  she,  showing  the  book,  "  don't  you 
remember  the  mother  of  that  girl  called  her  Betsey  Jane. 
Douglas  ?" 

"  Yes,  yes,"  gasped  Madam  Conway,  raising  both  hands, 
while  an  expression  of  deep,  intense  anxiety  was  visible 
upon  her  face. 

"  And  don't  you  know,  too,"  continued  Maggie,  "  that 

George  always  seemed  inclined  to  say  as  little  as  possible 

f  his  parents  ?     Now,  in  this  country,  it  is  not  unusual  for 

ae  sons  of  just  such  people  as  those  to  be  among  the  most 

rcalthy  and  respectable  citizens." 

"  Maggie,  Maggie,"  hoarsely  whispered  Madam  Conway, 
grasping  Maggie's  arm,  "do  you  mean  to  insinuate — am  I 
to  understand  that  you  believe  that  odious  woman  and 
hideous  girl  to  be  the  mother  and  sister  of  George  Doug 
las?" 

"  I  haven't  a  doubt  of  it,"  answered  Maggie.  "  'Twas  the 
15 


MS  MAGGIE    MILLER. 

resemblance  between  Betsey  Jane  and  George,  wnich  I 
observed  at  first." 

Out  of  her  chair  to  the  floor  tumbled  Madam  Conway, 
fainting  entirely  away,  while  Maggie,  stepping  to  the  door, 
called  for  help. 

"  I  mistrusted  she  was  awful  sick  at  dinner,"  said  Mra. 
Douglas,  taking  her  hands  from  the  dishwater,  and  running 
to  the  parlor.  "  I  wish  she'd  smelt  of  the  camphor,  as  I 
wanted  her  to.  Does  she  have  such  spells  often  ?" 

By  this  time  Betsey  Jane  had  brought  a  basin  of  water, 
which  she  dashed  in  the  face  of  the  unconscious  woman,  who 
soon  began  to  revive. 

"  Pennyryal  tea'll  settle  her  stomach  quicker'u  anything 
else,"  said  Mrs.  Douglas.  "  I'll  clap  a  little  right  on  the 
stove;"  and  helping  Madam  Conway  to  the  sofa,  she  left  the 
room, 

"  There  may  possibly  be  a  mistake,  after  all,"  thought 
Maggie.  "  I'll  question  the  girl,"  and  turning  to  Betsey 
Jane,  she  said,  taking  up  the  book  which  had  before 
attracted  her  attention,  "  Is  this,  Jenny  Douglas,  intended 
for  you  ?" 

"Yes,  ma'am,"  answered  the  girl,  coloring  slightly. 
"  Brother  George  calls  me  Jenny,  because  he  thinks  Betsey 
so  old  fashioned." 

An  audible  groan  from  the  sofa,  and  Maggie  continued, 
"  Where  does  your  brother  live  ?" 

"  In  Worcester,  ma'am.  He  keeps  a  store  there," 
answered  Betsey,  who  was  going  to  say  more,  when  her 
mother  reentering  the  room,  took  up  the  conversation  by 
saying,  "  Was  you  tellin'  'em  about  George  Washington  ? 
Wai,  he's  a  boy  no  mother  need  to  be  ashamed  on,  though 
my  old  man  sometimes  says  he's  ashamed  of  us,  we  are  so 
different.  But  then  he  orto  consider  the  advantages  he's 


MADAM    CONWAY'S    DISASTERS.  SW 

had.  We  only  brung  him  up  till  he  was  ten  years  old,  and 
then  an  uncle  he  was  named  after  took  him,  and  gin  him  a 
college  schoolia',  and  then  put  him  into  his  store  in  Wor 
cester.  Your  head  aches  wus,  don't  it  ?  Poor  thing  !  -The 
pennyryal  will  be  steeped  directly,"  she  added,  in  an  aside 
to  Madau  Conway,  who  had  groaned  aloud  as  if  in  pain, 
Then  resuming  her  story,  she  continued,  "Better'n  six  year 
tgo,  Uncle  George,  who  was  a  bachelder,  died,  leaving  the 
heft  of  his  property,  seventy-five  thousand  dollars,  or  more, 
co  my  son,  who  is  now  top  of  the  heap  in  the  store,  and 
worth  $100,000,  I  presume  ;  some  say,  $200,000 :  but 
that's  the  way  some  folks  have  of  agitatin'  things." 

"  Is  he  married  ?"  asked  Maggie,  and  Mrs.  Douglas,  mis 
taking  the  motive  which  prompted  the  question,  answered, 
"  Yes,  dear,  he  is.  If  he  wan't,  I  know  of  no  darter-in-law 
I'd  as  soon  have  as  you.  I  don't  believe  in  finding  fault 
witti  my  son's  wife  ;  but  there's  a  proud  look  in  her  face,  I 
don't  like.  This  is  her  picter,"  and  she  passed  to  Maggie 
the  daguerreotype  of  Theo. 

"  I've  looked  at  it  before,"  said  Maggie,  and  the  good 
woman  proceeded.  "  I  hain't  seen  her  yet  ;  but  he's  goiu' 
to  bring  her  to  Charlton  bimeby.  He's  a  good  boy,  George 
is,  free  as  water  ; — gave  me  this  carpet,  the  sofy  and  chair, 
and  has  paid  Betsey  Jane's  schoolin'  one  winter  at  Leicester. 
But  Betsey  don't  take  to  books  much.  She's  more  like  me, 
her  father  says.  They  had  a  big  party  for  George  last 
night,  but  I  wasn't  invited.  Shouldn't  a'  gone  if  I  had  been; 
but  for  all  that,  a  body  don't  wan't  to  be  slighted,  even  if 
hey  don't  belong  to  the  quality.  If  I'm  good  enough  to  bo 
George's  mother  I'm  good  enough  to  go  to  a  party  with  his 
wife.  But  she  wan't  to  blame,  and  I  shan't  lay  it  up  against 
bcr.  I  shall  see  ker  to-morrow,  pretty  likely,  for  Sara 
Babbit's  wife  and  I  are  goiu'  down  to  the  firemen's  muster 


840  MAGGIE    MILLER. 

You've  heard  on't,  I  s'pose.  The  different  engines  are  goia' 
to  see  which  will  shute  water  the  highest  over  a  180  foot 
pole.  I  wouldn't  miss  goiu'  for  anything,  and  of  course  I 
shall  call  on  T/ieodoshy.  I  calkerlate  to  like  her,  and  when 
they  go  to  housekeeping  I've  got  a  hull  chest  full  of  sheets, 
and  piller-biers,  and  towels  I'm  goin'  to  give  her,  besides 
three  or  four  bed  quilts  I  pieced  myself,  two  in  herrin'-bone 
pattern,  and  one  in  risin'  sun.  I'll  show  'em  to  you,"  and 
leaving  the  room,  she  soon  returned  with  three  patch-work 
quilts,  wherein  were  all  possible  shades  of  color,  red  and 
yellow  predominating,  and  in  one  the  "  rising  sun"  forming  a 
huge  centre  piece. 

"  Heavens  I"  faintly  articulated  Madam  Conway,  press 
ing  her  hands  upon  her  head,  which  was  supposed  to  be 
aching  dreadfully.  The  thought  of  Thco  reposing  beneath 
the  "  risiii'  sun,"  or  yet  the  "  herrin'-bone,"  was  intolerable  ; 
and  looking  beseechingly  at  Maggie,  she  whispered,  "Do  see 
if  Mike  is  ready." 

"  If  it's  the  carriage  you  mean,"  chimed  in  Mrs.  Douglas, 
"  it's  been  waiting  quite  a  spell,  but  I  thought  you  warn't 
fit  to  ride  yet,  so  I  didn't  tell  you." 

Starting  to  her  feet,  Madam  Conway's  bonnet  went  on 
in  a  trice,  and  taking  her  shawl  in  her  hand,  she  walked  out 
doors,  barely  expressing  her  thanks  to  Mrs.  Douglas,  who, 
greatly  distressed  at  her  abrupt  departure,  ran  for  the  herb 
tea,  and  taking  the  tin  cup  in  her  hand,  followed  her  guest 
to  the  carriage,  urging  her  to  "  take  a  swaller  just  to  keep 
from  vomiting." 

"  She's  better  without  it,"  said  Maggie.  "  She  seldom 
lakes  medicine,"  and  politely  expressing  her  gratitude  to  Mrs. 
Douglas  for  her  kindness,  she  bade  Mike  drive  on. 

"  Some  crazy  critter  just  out  of  the  Asyluir,  I'll  bet,"  said 
Mrs  Douglas,  walking  back  to  the  house  with  her  peimyro)  H) 


MADAM    COXWAY'S    DIS ASTERS.  841 

tea.  "  How  queer  she  acted  1  but  that  girl's  a  lady,  everj 
inch  of  her,  and  so  handsome,  too,  I  wonder  who  she  is  ?" 

"  Don't  you  believe  the  old  woman  felt  a  little  above  us  T 
suggested  Betsey  Jane,  who  had  more  discernment  than  her 
mother. 

"  Like  enough  she  did,  though  I  never  thought  on't.  But 
she  needn't.  I'm  as  good  as  she  is,  and  I'll  warrant  as  much 
thought  on,  where  I'm  known;"  and  quite  satisfied  with  her 
own  position,  Mrs.  Douglas  went  back  to  her  dishwashing, 
while  Betsey  Jane  stole  away  up  stairs  to  try  the  experiment 
of  arranging  her  hair  after  the  fashion  in  which  Margaret 
wore  hers. 

In  the  meantime,  Mike,  perfectly  sobered,  had  turned  hia 
horses'  heads  in  the  direction  of  Hillsdale,  when  Madame 
Coiiway  called  out,  "  To  Worcester,  Mike — to  Worcester, 
as  fast  as  you  can  drive." 

"To  Worcester  !  For  what?"  asked  Maggie,  and  the  excit 
ed  woman  answered.  "  To  stop  it.  To  forbid  the.  bans.  I 
should  think  you'd  ask  for  what  ?" 

"  To  stop  it,"  repeated  Maggie.  "I'd  like  to  see  you  stop 
it,  when  they've  been  married  two  months  !" 

"  So  they  have,  so  tJiey  have,"  said  Madam  Conway,  wring 
ing  her  hands  in  her  despair,  and  crying  out,  "  that  a  Con- 
way  should  be  so  disgraced.  What  shall  I  do  ?  What 
shall  I  do  ?" 

"  Make  the  best  of  it,  of  course,"  answered  Maggie.  "  I 
don't  see  as  George  is  any  worse  for  his  parentage.  He  ia 
evidently  greatly  respected  in  Worcester,  where  his  family 
are  undoubtedly  known.  lie  is  educated  and  refined,  if  they 
are  not.  Theo  loves  him,  and  that  is  sufficient,  unless  I  add 
that  he  has  money." 

'•  But  not  as  much  as  I  supposed,"  moaned  Madam  Con- 
wa)  "  Theo  told  me  $200,000  ;  but  that  woman  said  owe 


348  MAGGIE     MILLEK. 

Oh  what  will  become  of  me  ?     Give  me  the  hartshorn,  Mag 
gie.     I  feel  $0  faint  !" 

The  hartshorn  was  handed  her,  but  it  could  not  quiet  her 
distress.'  Her  family  pride  was  sorely  wounded,  and  had 
Theo  been  dead,  she  would  hardly  have  felt  worse  than  she 
did. 

"How  will  she  bear  it  when  it  comes  to  her  knowledge, 
as  it  necessarily  must  ?  It  will  kill  her,  I  know,"  she  ex 
claimed,  after  Maggie  had  exhausted  all  her  powers  of  rea 
soning  in  vain  ;  then,  as  she  remembered  the  woman's 
avowed  intention  of  visiting  her  daughter-in-law  on  the  mor 
row,  she  felt  that  she  must  turn  back  ;  she  must  see  Thco 
and  break  it  to  her  gently,  or  "  the  first  sight  of  that  odious 
creature,  claiming  her  for  a  daughter,  might  be  of  incalcula 
ble  injury." 

"  Stop,  Mike,"  she  was  about  to  say  ;  but  ere  the  words 
passed  her  lips,  she  reflected  that  to  take  Maggie  back  to 
Worcester,  was  to  throw  her  again  in  Henry  Warner's  way, 
and  this  she  could  not  do.  There  was  then  but  one  alterna 
tive.  She  could  stop  at  the  Charlton  depot,  not  far  distant, 
and  wait  for  the  downward  train,  while  Mike  drove  Maggie 
home,  and  this  she  resolved  to  do.  Mike  was  accordingly 
bidden  to  take  her  at  once  to  the  depot,  which  he  did,  while 
she  explained  to  Maggie,  her  reason  for  returning. 

"  Theo  is  much  better  alone,  and  George  will  not  thank 
you  for  interfering,"  said  Maggie,  not  at  all  pleased  witQ 
her  grandmother's  proceedings. 

But  the  old  lady  was  determined.  "  It  was  her  duty," 
ihe  said,  "  to  stand  by  Theo  in  trouble,  and  if  a  visit  frcm 
that  hcrrid  creature  wasn't  trouble,  she  could  not  well  define 
it." 

"  When  will  you  come  home  ?"  asked  Maggie, 

4  Not  before  to-morrow  night.    Now  I  have  undertaken 


MADAM    COJfWAY'S    DISASTERS.  348 

the  matter,  I  intend  to  see  it  through,"  said  Madam  Conway, 
referring  to  the  expected  visit  of  "  Mrs.  Douglas,  senior." 

But  Mike  did  not  thus  understand  it,  and  thinking  her 
only  object  in  turning  back  was,  "  to  see  the  doin's,"  as  ho 
designated  the  "  Fireman's  Muster,"  he  muttered  long  and 
loud  about  "  being  thus  sent  home,  while  his  madam  went  to 
see  the  fun." 

In  the  meantime,  on  a  hard  settee,  at  the  rather  uncom 
fortable  depot,  Madam  Conway  awaited  the  arrival  of  the 
train,  which  came  at  last,  and  in  a  short  time,  she  found 
herself  again  in  Worcester  Once  in  a  carriage,  and  on  her 
way  to  the  "  Bay  State,"  she  began  to  feel  a  little  nervous, 
half-wishing  she  had  followed  Maggie's  advice,  and  left  Theo 
alone.  But  it  could  not  now  be  helped,  and  while  trying  to 
think  what  she  should  say  to  her  astonished  grand-daughter, 
she  was  set  down  at  the  door  of  the  hotel,  slightly  be 
wildered,  and  a  good  deal  perplexed,  a  feeling  which  was 
by  no  means  diminished  when  she  learned  that  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Douglas  were  both  out  of  town. 

"  Where  have  they  gone,  and  when  will  they  return  ?" 
she  gasped,  untying  her  bonnet  strings  for  an  easier  respira 
tion. 

To  these  queries  the  clerk  replied,  that  he  believed  Mr. 
Douglas  had  gone  to  Boston  on  business,  that  he  might  be 
at  home  that  night ;  at  all  events,  he  would  probably  return 
in  the  morning  ;  she  could  find  Mr.  Warner,  who  would  tell 
her  all  about  it.  "  Shall  I  send  for  him  ?"  he  continued,  as 
he  saw  the  scowl  upon  her  face. 

•  "  Certainly  not,"  she  answered,  and  taking  the  key,  which 
had  been  left  in  his  charge,  she  repaired  to  Theo's  rooms, 
and  sinking  into  a  large  easy-chair,  fanned  herself  furiously, 
wondering  if  they  would  return  that  night,  and  what  they 
would  say  when  they  found  her  there.  "  But  I  don't  we/ 


344  MAGGIE    MILLER 

she  continued,  speaking  aloud  and  shaking-  her  head  very 
decidedly  at  the  excited  woman  whose  image  was  reflected 
by  the  mirror  opposite,  and  who  shook  her  head  as  decidedly 
in  return  !  "  George  Douglas  has  deceived  us  shame 
fully,  and  I'll  tell  him  so,  too.  I  wish  he'd  come  this 
minute  !" 

But  George  Douglas  knew  well  what  he  was  doing. 
Very  gradually  was  he  imparting  to  Theo  a  knowledge  of 
his  parents,  and  Theo,  who  really  loved  her  husband,  was 
learning  to  prize  him  for  himself  and  not  for  his  family. 
Feeling  certain  that  the  firemen's  muster  would  bring  his 
mother  to  town,  and  knowing  that  Theo  was  not  yet  pre 
pared  to  see  her,  he  was  greatly  relieved  at  Madam  Con- 
way's  sudden  departure,  and  had  himself  purposely  left 
home,  with  the  intention  of  staying  away  until  Friday  night. 
This,  however,  Madam  Coiiway  did  not  know,  and  very 
impatiently  she  awaited  his  coming,  until  the  lateness  of  the 
hour  precluded  the  possibility  of  his  arrival,  and  she  retired 
to  bed,  but  not  to  sleep,  for  the  city  was  full  of  firemen,  and 
one  company,  failing  of  finding  lodgings  elsewhere,  had 
taken  refuge  in  an  empty  carriage  shop  near  by.  The  hard, 
bare  floor  was  not  the  most  comfortable  bed  imaginable, 
and  preferring  the  bright  moonlight  and  open  air,  they  made 
the  night  hideous  with  their  noisy  shouts,  which  the  watch 
men  tried  in  vain  to  hush.  To  sleep  in  that  neighborhood 
was  impossible,  and  all  night  long  Madam  Couway  vibrated 
between  her  bed  and  the  window,  from  which  latter  point 
she  frowned  wrathfully  down  upon  the  red  coats  below,  who, 
scoffing  alike  at  law  and  order  as  dispensed  by  the  police ' 
kept  up  their  noisy  revel,  shouting  lustily  for  "  Chelsea,  X&, 
4,"  and  "  Washington,  No.  2,"  until  the  dawn  of  day. 

"  1  wish  to  mercy  I'd  gone  home,  !"  sighed  Madam  Con- 
way,  as  weak  and  faint  she  crepi  down  to  the  breakfast 


MADAM    CONWAY'S    DISASTERS.  «« 

tab.e,  doing  but  little  justice  to  anything,  and  returning  to 
her  room,  pale,  haggard  and  weary. 

Ere  long,  however,  she  became  interested  in  watching  the 
crowds  of  people,  who  at  an  early  hour  filled  the  streets  ; 
and  when  at  last  the  different  fire  companies  of  the  State 
paraded  the  town  in  a  seemingly  never  ending  procession, 
she  forgot  in  a  measure  her  trouble,  and  drawing  her  chair 
to  the  window,  sat  down  to  enjoy  the  brilliant  scene, 
involuntarily  nodding  her  head  to  the  stirring  music,  a« 
troop  after  troop  passed  by.  Up  and  down  the  street,  as 
far  as  the  eye  could  reach,  the  sidewalks  were  crowded  with 
men,  women  and  children,  all  eager  to  see  the  sight.  There 
were  people  from  the  city  and  people  from  the  country,  the 
latter  of  whom,  having  anticipated  the  day  for  weeks  and 
months,  were  now  unquestionably  enjoying  it. 

Conspucious  among  these  was  a  middle  aged  woman,  who 
elicited  remarks  from  all  who  beheld  her,  both  from  the 
peculiarity  of  her  dress,  and  the  huge,  blue  cotton  umbrella 
she  persisted  in  hoisting,  to  the  great  annoyance  of  those  in 
whose  faces  it  was  thrust,  and  who  forgot  in  a  measure  their 
vexation  when  they  read  the  novel  device  it  bore.  Like 
many  other  people  who  can  sympathize  with  the  good  woman, 
she  was  always  losing  her  umbrella,  and  at  last,  in  self- 
defence,  had  embroidered  upon  the  blue  in  letters  of  white  : 

"  Steal  me  not,  for  fear  of  shame, 
For  here  you  see  my  owner's  name. 

"  CHARITY  DOUGLAS." 

As  the  lettering  was  small  aud  not  very  distinct,  it  re 
quired  a  close  observation  to  decipher  it  ;  but  the  plan  waa 
s  successful  one,  nevertheless,  and  for  four  long  years  the 
blue  umbrella  had  done  good  service  to  its  mistress,  shield 
ing  lier  alike  from  sunshine  and  from  storm,  aud  now  in  the 

15* 


84b  MAGGIE    MILLER 

crowded  city  it  performed  a  double  part,  preventing  its 
nearest  neighbors  from  seeing,  while  at  the  same  time  it  kept 
the  dust  from  settling  on  the  thick  green  veil  and  leghorn 
bonnet  of  its  owner.  At  Betsey  Jane's  suggestion  she  wore 
a  hoop  to-day  on  Theo's  account,  and  that  she  was  painfully 
conscious  of  the  fact,  was  proved  by  the  many  anxioua 
glances  she  cast  al  her  chocolate  colored  muslin,  through  the 
thin  folds  of  which  it  was  plainly  visible. 

"  I  wish  I  hud  left  the  pesky  thing  to  hum,"  she  thought, 
feeling  greatly  relieved  when  at  last,  as  the  crowd  became 
greater,  it  was  broken  in  several  pieces  and  ceased  to  do  its 
duty. 

From  her  seat  near  the  window,  Madam  Conway  caught 
sight  of  the  umbrella  as  it  swayed  up  and  down  amid  the 
multitude,  but  she  had  no  suspicion  that  she  who  bore  it 
thus  aloft  had  even  a  better  right  than  herself  to  sit  where 
she  was  sitting.  lu  her  excitement  she  had  forgotten  Mrs. 
Douglas's  intended  visit,  to  prepare  Theo  for  which  she  had 
returned  to  Worcester,  but  it  came  to  her  at  length,  when 
as  the  last  fire  company  passed,  the  blue  umbrella  was 
closed,  and  the  leghorn  bonnet  turned  in  the  direction  of  the 
hotel.  There  was  no  mistaking  the  broad  good-humored 
face  which  looked  so  eagerly  up  at  "  George's  window," 
and  involuntarily  Madam  Conway  glanced  under  the  bed 
with  the  view  of  fleeing  thither  for  refuge  ! 

"  What  shall  I  do  ?"  she  cried,  as  she  heard  the  umbrella 
on  the  stairs.  "  I'll  lock  her  out,"  she  continued;  and  in  an 
instant  the  key  was  in  her  pocket,  while,  trembling  in  every 
limb,  she  awaited  the  result. 

Nearer  and  nearer  the  footsteps  came  ;  there  was  a 
knock  upon  the  door,  succeeded  by  a  louder  one,  and  then,  as 
both  these  failed  to  elicit  a  response,  the  handle  of  the  um 
brella  was  vigorously  applied.  But  all  in  vain,  and  Madaiw 


MADAM    CONWAY'S    DISASTERS.  847 

Conway  beard  the  discomfited  outsider  say,  "  They  told  me 
Theodoshy's  grandmarm  was  here,  but  I  guess  she's  in  the 
street.  I'll  come  agin  bime-by,"  and  Mrs.  Douglas  senior 
walked  disconsolately  down  the  stairs,  while  Madam  Con 
way  th  jught  it  doubtful  whether  she  gained  access  to  the 
room  that  day,  come  as  often  as  she  might. 

Not  long  after,  the  gong  sounded  for  dinner,  and  unlock 
ing  the  door,  Madam  Conway  was  about  descending  to  the 
dining-room,  when  the  thought  burst  upon,  "  What  if  she 
should  be  at  the  table  ?  It's  just  like  her." 

The  very  idea  was  overwhelming,  taking  from  her  at  once 
all  desire  for  dinner  ;  and  returning  to  her  room,  she  tried, 
by  looking  over  the  books,  and  examining  the  carpet,  to 
forget  how  hungry  and  faint  she  was.  Whether  she  would 
have  succeeded  is  doubtful,  had  not  an  hour  or  two  later 
brought  another  knock  from  the  umbrella,  and  driven  all 
thoughts  of  eating  from  her  mind.  In  grim  silence  she 
waited  until  her  tormentor  was  gone,  and  then  wondering 
if  it  was  not  time  for  the  train,  she  consulted  her  watch. 
But  alas  !  'twas  only  four  ;  the  cars  did  not  leave  until  six, 
and  so  another  weary  hour  went  by.  At  the  end  of  that 
time,  however,  thinking  the  depot  preferable  to  being  a 
prisoner  there,  she  resolved  to  go  ;  and  leaving  the  key  with 
the  clerk,  she  called  a  carriage  and  was  soon  on  her  way  to 
the  cars. 

As  she  approached  the  depot,  she  observed  an  immense 
crowd  of  people,  gathered  together,  among  which  the  red 
coats  of  the  firemen  were  conspicuous.  A  fight  was  evidently 
in  progress,  and  as  the  horses  began  to  grow  restive,  she 
begged  of  the  driver  to  let  her  alight,  saying  she  could 
easily  walk  the  remainder  of  the  way.  Scarcely,  however, 
was  she  on  terra  firma,  when  the  yelling  crowd  made  a  pre« 
v'ipiUte  rush  towards  her,  and  in  much  alarm,  she  climbed 


348  MAGGIE    MILLEIi. 

for  safety  into  an  empty  buggy,  whereupon  the  horse, 
equally  alarmed,  began  to  rear,  and  without  pausing  an  in 
etant,  the  terrified  lady  sprang  out  on  the  side  opposite  to 
that  by  which  she  had  entered,  catching  her  dress  upon  tho 
seat,  and  tearing  half  the  gathers  from  the  waist. 

"  Heaven  help  me  1"  she  cried,  picking  herself  up,  and  be 
ginning  to  wish  she  had  never  troubled  herself  with  Theo's 
mother-in-law. 

To  reach  the  depot  was  now  her  great  object,  and  as  the 
two  belligerent  parties  occupied  the  front,  she  thought  to 
effect  au  entrance  at  the  rear.  But  the  doors  were  locked, 
and  as  she  turned  the  corner  of  the  building,  she  suddenly 
found  herself  in  the  thickest  of  the  fight.  To  advance  was 
impossible,  to  turn  back  equally  so,  and  while  meditating 
some  means  of  escape,  she  lost  her  footing  and  fell  across  a 
wheelbarrow,  which  stood  upon  the  platform,  crumpling  her 
bonnet,  and  scratching  her  face  upon  a  nail  which  protruded 
from  the  vehicle.  Nearer  dead  than  alive,  she  made  her  way 
at  last  into  the  depot,  and  from  thence  into  the  cars,  where, 
sinking  into  a  seat,  and  drawing  her  shawl  closely  around 
her,  the  better  to  conceal  the  sad  condition  of  her  dress,  she 
indulged  in  meditations  not  wholly  complimentary  to  firemen 
in  general,  and  her  late  comrades  in  particular. 

For  half  an  hour  she  waited  impatiently,  but  though  the 
cars  were  filling  rapidly  there  were  no  indications  of  starting; 
and  it  was  almost  seven,  ere  the  long  and  heavily  loaded 
train  moved  slowly  from  the  depot.  About  fifteen  minutes 
previous  to  their  departure,  as  Madam  Conway  was  looking 
ruefully  out  upon  the  multitude,  she  was  horrified  at  seeing 
directly  beneath  her  window,  the  veritable  woman  from 
whom,  through  the  entire  day,  she  had  been  hiding.  Invo 
luntarily  she  glanced  at  the  vacant  seat  in  front  of  her, 
which,  as  she  feared,  was  soon  occupied  by  Mrs.  Dougla* 


MADAM    CONWAY'S    DISASTERS.  34« 

ami  her  companion,  who,  as  Madam  Conway  divined,  was 
"  Sain  Babbit's  wife." 

Trembling  nervously  lest  she  should  be  discovered,  she 
drew  he:  reil  closely  over  her  face,  keeping  very  quiet,  and 
looking  intently  from  the  window  into  the  gathering  dark 
tiess  without.  But  her  fears  were  groundless,  for  Mrs 
Douglas  had  no  suspicion  that  the  crumpled  bonnet  and 
forry  figure,  sitting  so  disconsolately  in  the  corner,  was  the 
same  which  but  the  day  before  had  honored  her  with  a  call. 
She  was  in  high  spirits,  having  had,  as  she  informed  her 
neighbor,  "  a  tip-top  time."  On  one  point,  however,  she  was 
disappointed.  "  She  meant  as  much  as  could  be  to  have 
seen  Theodoshy,  but  she  wan't  to  hum.  Her  graudmarm 
was  in  town,"  said  she,  "  but  if  she  was  in  the  room,  she 
must  have  been  asleep,  or  dreadful  deaf,  for  I  pounded  with 
all  my  might.  I'm  sorry,  for  I'd  like  to  scrape  acquaintance 
with  her,  bein'  we're  connected." 

An  audible  groan  came  from  beneath  the  thick  brown 
veil,  whereupon  both  ladies  turned  their  heads.  But  the  in 
dignant  woman  made  no  sign,  and  in  a  whisper  loud  enough 
for  Madam  Conway  to  hear,  Mrs.  Douglas  said,  "  Some 
Irish  critter  in  liquor,  I  presume.  Look  at  her  jammed 
bonnet." 

This  remark  drew  from  Mrs.  Bab-bit  a  very  close  inspec 
tion  of  the  veiled  figure,  who,  smothering  her  wrath,  felt 
greatly  relieved  when  the  train  started,  and  prevented  her 
from  hearing  anything  more.  At  the  next  station,  however, 
Mrs.  Douglas  showed  her  companion  a  crochet  collar,  which 
she  had  purchased  for  two  shillings,  and  which,  she  said,* 
"  was  almost  exactly  like  the  one  worn  by  tho  woman  who 
•topped  at  her  house  the  day  before." 

Leaning  forward,  Madam  Conway  glanced  contemptu 
ously  at  the  coarse  knit  thing,  which  bore  about  the  same 


350  MAGGIE    MILLER. 

resemblance  to  her  own  handsome  collar,  as  cambric  does  to 
satin. 

"  Vulgar,  ignorant  creatures  I"  she  muttered,  while  Mrs. 
Babbit,  after  duly  praising  the  collar,  proceeded  to  make 
Borne  inquiries  concerning  the  strange  lady  who  had  shared 
Mrs.  Douglas's  hospitality. 

"  I've  no  idee  who  she  was,"  said  Mrs.  Douglas  ;  "  but  I 
think  it's  purty  likely  she  was  some  crazy  critter  they  was 
takiu'  to  the  hospital." 

Another  groan  from  beneath  the  brown  veil,  and  turning 
around,  the  kind  hearted  Mrs.  Douglas  asked  if  she  was 
sick,  adding  in  an  aside,  as  there  came  no  answer,  "  been 
fightin'  I'll  warrant  1" 

Fortunately  for  Madam  Conway,  the  cars  moved  on,  and 
when  they  stopped  again,  to  her  great  relief;  the  owner  of 
the  blue  umbrella,  together  with  "  Sam  Babbit's  wife," 
alighted,  and  amid  the  crowd  assembled  on  the  platform  she 
recognized  Betsey  Jane,  who  had  come  down  to  meet  her 
mother.  The  remainder  of  the  way  seemed  tedious  enough, 
for  the  train  moved  but  slowly,  and  it  was  near  10  o'clock 
ere  they  reached  the  Hillsdale  station,  where,  to  her  great 
delight,  Madam  Conway  found  Margaret  awaiting  her, 
together  with  Arthur  Carrollton.  The  moment  she  saw  the 
former,  who  came  eagerly  forward  to  meet  her,  the  weary, 
worn-out  woman  burst  into  tears;  but  at  the  sight  of  Mr. 
Carrollton,  she  forced  them  back,  saying  in  reply  to  Maggie'8 
inquiries,  that  Theo  was  not  at  home,  that  she  had  spent  a 
dreadful  day,  and  been  knocked  down  in  a  fight  at  the 
depot,  in  proof  of  which  she  pointed  to  her  torn  dress,  her 
crumpled  bonnet,  and  scratched  face.  Maggie  laughed 
aloud  in  spite  of  herself,  and  though  Mr.  Carrollton's  eyes 
were  several  times  turned  reprovingly  upon  her,  she  con 
tinued  to  laugh  at  intervals  at  the  sorry,  forlorn  appearance 


ARTHUR    CAKROLLTON    AMD    MAGGIE.  861 

presented  by  her  grandmother,  who  for  several  days  was 
confined  to  her  bed,  from  the  combined  effects  of  fasting, 
fright,  firemen's  muster,  and  her  late  encounter  with  Mrs. 
Douglas,  senior  1 


IM  MA.GGJE    MILLF.R. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

ARTHUR    CARROLLTON    AND    MAGGIE. 

MR.  CARROLLTON  had  returned  from  Boston  ou  Thursday 
afternoon,  and  finding  them  all  gone  from  the  hotel,  had 
come  on  to  Hillsdale  in  the  evening  train,  surprising  Maggie 
as  she  sat  in  the  parlor  alone,  wishing  herself  in  Worcester, 
or  in  some  place  where  it  was  not  as  lonely  as  there.  With 
his  presence  the  loneliness  disappeared,  and  in  making  his 
tea  and  listening  to  his  agreeable  conversation,  she  forgot 
everything,  until,  observing  that  she  looked  weary,  he  said, 
"Maggie,  I  would  willingly  talk  to  you  all  night,  wore  it  not 
for  the  bad  effect  it  would  have  you  on  to-morrow.  You 
must  go  to  bed  now,"  and  he  showed  her  his  watch,  which 
pointed  to  the  hour  of  midnight. 

Exceedingly  mortified,  Maggie  was  leaving  the  room, 
when  noticing  her  evident  chagrin,  Mr.  Carrollton  came  to 
her  side  and  laying  his  hand  very  respectfully  on  hers,  said 
kindly,  "It  is  my  fault,  Maggie,  keeping  you  up  so  late,  and 
I  only  send  you  away  now,  because  those  eyes  are  growing 
heavy,  and  I  know  that  you  need  rest.  Good  night  to  you, 
and  pleasant  dreams." 

He  went  with  her  to  the  door,  watching  her  until  she  dis 
appeared  up  the  stairs  ;  then  half  wishing  he  had  not  sent 
her  from  him,  he,  too,  sought  his  chamber;  but  not  to  sleep, 
for  Maggie,  though  absent,  was  with  him  still  in  fancy.  For 
more  than  a  year  he  had  been  haunted  with  a  bright,  sun- 


ARTHUR    CARROLLTON    AND    MAGGIE.  853 

shiny  face,  whose  owner  embodied  the  dashing,  independent 
spirit,  and  softer  qualities  which  made  Maggie  Miller  so  at 
tractive.  Of  this  face  he  had  often  thought,  wondering  if  the 
real  ^yould  equal  the  ideal,  and  now  that  he  had  met  with 
her,  had  looked  into  her  truthful  eyes,  had  gazed  upon  her 
feunny  face,  which  mirrored  faithfully  her  every  thought  and 
feeliug,  he  was  more  than  satisfied,  and  to  love  that  beau 
tiful  girl  seemed  to  him  an  easy  matter.  She  was  so  child 
like,  so  artless,  so  different  from  any  one  whom  he  had  ever 
known,  that  he  was  interested  in  her  at  once.  But  Arthur 
Carrollton  never  did  a  thing  precipitately.  She  might  have 
many  glaring  faults,  he  must  see  her  more,  must  know  her 
better,  ere  he  lavished  upon  her  the  love  whose  deep  foun 
tains  had  never  yet  been  stirred. 

After  this  manner  he  reasoned  as  he  walked  up  and  dowu 
his  chamber,  while  Maggie,  on  her  sleepless  pillow,  was 
thinking,  too,  of  him,  wondering  if  she  did  hate  him  as 
much  as  she  intended,  and  if  Henry  would  be  offended  at 
her  sitting  up  with  him  until  after  twelve  o'clock. 

It  was  nearly  half-past  nine  when  Maggie  awoke  next 
morning,  and  making  a  hasty  toilet,  she  descended  to  the 
dining-room,  where  she  found  Mr.  Carrollton  awaiting  her. 
He  had  been  up  a  long  time  ;  but  when  Anna  Jeffrey, 
blessed  with  an  uncommon  appetite,  fretted  at  the  delay  of 
breakfast,  and  suggested  calling  Margaret,  he  objected,  say 
ing  she  needed  rest,  and  must  not  be  disturbed.  So,  in 
something  of  a  pet,  the  young  lady  breakfasted  alone  with 
her  aunt,  Mr.  Carrollton  preferring  to  wait  for  Maggie. 

"I  am  sorry  I  kept  you  waiting,"  said  Maggie,  sealing 
aerself  at  the  table,  and  continuing  to  apologize  for  her 
tardiness. 

But  Mr.  Carrollton  felt  more  than  repaid  by  having  her 
thus  alone  with  him,  and  many  were  the  admiring  glances  ha 


«5t  MAGGIE    MILLER. 

cast  towards  her,  as  with  her  shining  hair,  her  happy  face, 
her  tasteful  morning  gown  of  pink,  and  her  beautiful  white 
hands  which  handled  so  gracefully  the  silver  coffee-urn,  she 
made  a  living,  glowing  picture,  such  as  any  man  might 
delight  to  look  upon.  Breakfast  being  over,  Mr.  Carroll- 
ion  proposed  a  ride,  and  as  Anna  Jeffrey  at  that  moment 
entered  the  parlor,  he  invited  her  to  accompany  them. 
There  was  a  shadow  on  Maggie's  brow,  as  she  left  the  room 
to  dress,  a  shadow  which  had  not  wholly  disappeared  when 
she  returned ;  and  observing  this,  Mr.  Carrollton  said, 
"  Were  I  to  consult  my  own  wishes,  Maggie,  I  should  leave 
Miss  Jeffrey  at  home  ;  but  she  is  a  poor  girl  whose  enjoy 
ments  are  far  less  than  ours,  consequently  I  invited  her  for 
this  once,  knowing  how  fond  she  is  of  riding." 

"  How  thoughtful  you  are  of  other  people's  happiness  !" 
said  Maggie,  the  shadow  leaving  her  brow  at  once. 

"  I  am  glad  that  wrinlde  has  gone,  at  all  events,"  returned 
Mr.  Carrollton,  laughingly,  and  laying  his  hand  upon  her 
forehead,  he  continued  :  "  Were  you  my  sister  Helen,  I 
should  probably  kiss  you  for  having  so  soon  got  over  your 
pet ;  but  as  you  are  Maggie  Miller,  I  dare  not,"  and  ho 
looked  earnestly  at  her,  to  see  if  he  had  spoken  the  truth. 

Coloring  crimson  as  it  became  the  affianced  bride  of 
Henry  Warner  to  do,  Maggie  turned  away,  thinking  Helen 
must  be  a  happy  girl,  and  half  wishing  she,  too,  were 
Arthur  Carrollton's  sister.  It  was  a  long,  delightful  excur 
sion  they  took,  and  Maggie,  when  she  saw  how  Anna  Jeffrey 
enjoyed  it,  did  not  altogether  regret  her  presence.  On  their 
way  home  she  proposed  calling  upon  Hagar,  "  whom  she  had 
not  seen  for  three  whole  days." 

"  And  who,  pray,  is  Hagar  ?"  asked  Mr.  Carrollton  ;  and 
Maggie  replied,  "  She  is  my  old  nurse, — a  strange,  eraxy 
creature,  whom  they  say  I  somewhat  resemble." 


ARTHUR    CARROLLTON    AND    MAGGIE.  358 

By  this  time  they  were  near  the  cottage,  in  the  door  of 
tfhich  old  Hagar  was  standing,  with  her  white  hair  falling 
round  her  face. 

"  I  see  by  your  looks,  you  don't  care  to  call,  but  I  shall," 
aaid  Maggie,  and  bounding  from  her  saddle,  she  ran  up  tc 
Hagar,  pressing  her  hand  and  whispering  in  her  ear,  that  it 
would  soon  be  time  to  hear  from  Henry. 

"  Kissed  her,  I  do  believe  !"  said  Anna  Jeffrey.  "  She 
must  have  admirable  taste  I" 

Mr.  Carrollton  thought  so  too,  and  with  a  half  comical, 
half  displeased  expression,  he  watched  the  interview  be 
tween  that  weird  old  woman,  and  fair  young  girl,  little 
suspecting  how  nearly  they  were  allied. 

"  Why  didn't  you  come  and  speak  to  her  ?"  said  Maggie, 
as  he  alighted  to  assist  her  in  again  mounting  Gritty.  "  She 
used  to  see  you  in  England,  when  you  were  a  baby,  and  if 
you  won't  be  angry,  I'll  tell  you  what  she  said,  it  was,  that 
you  were  the  Grossest,  ugliest  young  one  she  ever  saw  ! 
There,  there,  don't  set  me  down  so  hard  !"  and  the  saucy 
eyes  looked  mischievously  at  the  proud  Englishman,  who, 
truth  to  say,  did  place  her  in  the  saddle  with  a  little  more 
force  than  was  at  all  necessary. 

Not  that  he  was  angry.  He  was  only  annoyed  for  what 
he  considered  Maggie's  undue  familiarity  with  a  person  like 
Hagar,  but  he  wisely  forbore  making  any  comments  in  Anna 
Jeffrey's  presence,  except,  indeed,  to  laugh  heartily  at  Ha- 
gar's  complimentary  description  of  himself  when  a  baby. 
Arrived  at  home,  and  alone  again  with  Maggie,  he  found 
her  so  very  good-natured  and  agreeable,  that  he  could  not 
chide  her  for  anything,  and  Hagar  was  for  a  time  forgotten. 

That  evening,  as  the  reader  knows,  they  went  together  to 
the  depot,  where  they  waited  four  long  hours,  but  not  impa 
tiently  ;  for  sitting  there  in  the  moonlight,  with  the  winding 


88*  MAGGIE    MILLER. 

Chicopee  full  m  view,  and  Margaret  Miller  at  his  side,  AIN 
thur  Carrollton  forgot  the  lapse  of  time,  especially  when 
Maggie,  thinking  no  harm,  gave  a  most  ludicrous  description 
of  her  call  upon  Mrs.  Douglas  senior,  and  of  her  grandmo 
ther's  distress  at  finding  herself  so  nearly  connected  with 
what  she  termed  "  a  low,  vulgar  family." 

Arthur  Carrolltoii  was  very  proud,  and  had  Theo  been  kit 
sister,  he  might,  to  some  extent,  have  shared  m  Madam 
Conway's  chagrin  ;  and  so  he  said  to  Maggie,  at  the  same 
time  fully  agreeing  with  her  that  George  Douglas  was  a  re 
fined,  agreeable  man,  and  as  such  entitled  to  respect.  Still, 
had  Theo  known  of  his  parentage,  he  said,  it  would  probably 
have  made  some  difference  ;  but  now  that  it  could  not  be 
helped,  it  was  wise  to  make  the  best  of  it. 

These  words  were  little  heeded  then  by  Maggie,  but  with 
ruost  painful  distinctness  they  recurred  to  her  in  the  after 
time,  when,  humbled  in  the  very  dust,  she  had  no  hope  that 
the  highborn,  haughty  Carrollton  would  stoop  to  a  child  of 
Hagar  Warren  !  But  no  shadow  of  the  dark  future  was 
over  her  now,  and  very  eagerly  she  drank  iu  every  word  and 
look  of  Arthur  Carrollton,  who,  all  unconsciously,  was  tram 
pling  on  another's  rights,  and  gradually  weakening  the  fan 
cied  love  she  bore  for  Henry  Warner. 

The  arrival  of  the  train  brought  their  pleasant  conversa 
tion  to  a  close,  and  for  a  day  or  two  Maggie's  time  was 
wholly  occupied  with  her  grandmother,  to  whom  she  frankly 
acknowledged  having  told  Mr.  Carrollton  of  Mrs.  Douglaa 
and  her  daughter  Betsey  Jane.  The  fact  that  he  knew  of 
her  disgrace  and  did  not  despise  her  was  of  great  benefit  tc 
Madam  Conway,  and  after  a  few  days  she  resumed  her  usual 
spirits,  and  actually  told  of  the  remarks  made  by  Mrs.  Doug 
las  concerning  herself  and  the  fight  she  had  been  in  1  As 
time  passed  on  she  became  reconciled  to  the  Douglases,  hav 


ARTHUR    CARROLLTON    AND    MAGGIE.  857 

ing,  as  she  thought,  some  well-founded  reasons  for  believing 
that  for  Theo's  disgrace,  Maggie  would  make  amends  by 
marrying  Mr.  Carrollton,  whose  attentions  each  day  became 
more  and  more  marked,  and  were  not  apparently  altogether 
disagreeable  to  Maggie.  On  the  contrary,  his  presence  at 
HilJsdale  was  productive  of  much  pleasure  to  her,  as  well  as 
of  a  little  annoyance. 

From  the  first  he  seemed  to  exercise  over  her  an  influence 
ehe  could  not  well  resist — a  power  to  make  her  do  whatever 
he  willed  that  she  should  do  ;  and  though  she  sometimes  re 
belled,  she  was  pretty  sure  in  the  end  to  yield  the  contest, 
ind  submit  to  one  who  was  evidently  the  ruling  spirit.  As 
yet  nothing  had  been  said  of  the  hair  ornament  which,  out 
of  compliment  to  him,  her  grandmother  wore  every  morning 
in  her  collar,  but  at  last,  one  day  Madam  Conway  spoke  of 
it  herself,  asking  "  if  it  were,  as  she  had  supposed,  his  grand 
mother's  hair  ?" 

"  Why,  no,"  he  answered  involuntarily  ;  "  it  is  a  lock 
Maggie  sent  me  in  that  wonderful  daguerreotype  1" 

"  The  stupid  thing  1"  thought  Maggie,  while  her  eyes 
fairly  danced  with  merriment,  as  she  anticipated  the  ques 
tion  she  fancied  was  sure  to  follow,  but  did  not. 

One  glance  at  her  tell-tale  face  was  sufficient  for  Madam 
Conway.  In  her  whole  household  there  was  but  one  head 
with  locks  as  white  as  that,  and  whatever  her  thoughts 
might  have  been,  she  said  nothing,  but  from  that  day  forth, 
Hagar's  haii  was  never  again  seen  ornamenting  her  person  ! 
That  afternoon  Mr.  Carrollton  and  Maggie  went  out  to  ride, 
and  in  the  course  of  their  conversation  he  referred  to  the 
pin,  asking  whose  hair  it  was  and  seeming  much  amust-d 
when  told  that  it  was  Hagar's. 

"•But  why  did  you  not  tell  her  when  it  first  came,"  he 
said;  and  Maggie  answered,  "  Oh,  it  was  such  fun  to  see  hci 


858  MAGGIE    MILLER. 

sporting  Hagar's  hair,  when  she  is  so  proud.  It  didn't  hurt 
her  either,  for  Hagar  is  as  good  as  anybody.  I  don't  believe 
in  makitig  such  a  difference  because  one  person  chances  to 
be  richer  than  another." 

"  Neither  do  I,"  returned  Mr.  Carrollton.  "I  would  not 
esteem  a  person  for  wealth  alone,  but  there  are  points  of 
difference  which  should  receive  consideration.  For  instance, 
this  old  Hagar  may  be  well  enough  in  her  way,  but  suppose 
she  were  nearly  connected  to  you — your  grandmother  if  you 
like. — it  would  certainly  make  some  difference  in  your  position. 

You  would  not  be  Maggie  Miller,  and  I " 

"  Wouldn't  ride  with  me,  I  dare  say,"  interrupted  Mag 
gie;  to  which  he  replied,  "  I  presume  not,"  adding  as  he  saw 
slight  indications  of  pouting,  "  and  therefore  I  am  glad  you 
are  Maggie  Miller,  and  not  Hagar's  grandchild." 

Mentally  pronouncing  him  a  "  proud  hateful  thing,"  Mag 
gie  rode  on  a  while  in  silence.  But  Mr.  Carrollton  knew  well 
how  to  manage  her,  and  he,  too,  was  silent  until  Maggie, 
who  could  never  refrain  from  talking  any  length  of  time, 
forgot  herself  and  began  chatting  away  as  gaily  as  before. 
During  their  excursion  they  came  near  to  the  gorge  of 
Henry  Warner  memory,  and  Maggie,  who  bad  never 
quite  forgiven  Mr  Carrollton  for  criticising  her  horsemanship, 
resolved  to  show  him  what  she  could  do.  The  signal  was 
accordingly  given  to  Gritty,  and  ere  her  companion  was  aware 
of  her  intention  she  was  tearing  over  the  ground  at  a  speed 
he  could  hardly  equal.  The  ravine  was  just  on  the  border 
of  the  wood,  and  without  pausing  an  instant,  Gritty  leaped 
across  it,  lauding  safely  on  the  other  side,  where  he  stopped, 
while  half  fearfully,  half  exultingly,  Maggie  looked  back  to 
«ee  what  Mr.  Carrollton  would  do.  At  first  he  had  fancied 
Grilty  beyond  her  control,  and  wheu  he  saw  her  directly 
over  the  deep  chasm  he  shuddered,  involuntarily  stretching 


ARTHUR    CARROLLTON    AND    MAGGIE.  859 

out  his  arms  to  save  her  ;  but  the  look  she  gave  him  as  sho 
turned  around,  convinced  him  that  the  risk  she  had  run  was 
done  on  purpose.  Still  he  had  no  intention  of  following  her, 
for  he  feared  his  horse's  ability  as  well  as  his  own  to  clear 
that  pass. 

"  Why  don't  you  jump  ?  Are  you  afraid  ?"  and  Maggie's 
eyes  looked  archly  out  from  beneath  her  tasteful  riding 
cap. 

For  half  a  moment  he  felt  tempted  to  join  her,  but 
his  better  judgment  came  to  his  aid,  and  he  answered, 
"  Yes,  Maggie,  lam  afraid,  having  never  tried  such  an  ex 
periment.  But  I  wish  to  be  with  you  in  some  way,  and  as  I 
cannot  come  to  you,  I  ask  you  to  come  to  me.  You  seem 
accustomed  to  the  leap  1" 

He  did  not  praise  her.  Nay,  she  fancied  there  was  more 
of  censure  in  the  tones  of  his  voice  ;  at  all  events,  he  had 
asked  her  rather  commandingly  to  return,  and  "  she 
wouldn't  do  it."  For  a  moment  she  made  no  reply,  and  he 
said  again,  "  Maggie,  will  you  come  ?"  then  half  playfully, 
half  reproachfully,  she  made  answer,  "A  gallant  English 
man  indeed  !  willing  I  should  risk  my  neck  where  you  dare 
not  venture  yours.  No,  I  shan't  try  the  leap  again  to-day, 
I  don't  feel  like  it ;  but  I'll  cross  the  long  bridge  half  a 
mile  from  here — good  bye,"  and  fully  expecting  him  to  meet 
her,  she  galloped  off,  riding,  ere  long,  quite  slowly,  "  so  he'd 
have  a  nice  long  time  to  wait  for  her  1" 

How  then  was  she  disappointed,  when,  on  reaching  the 
bridge,  there  was  nowhere  a  trace  of  him  to  be  seen, 
neither  could  she  hear  the  sound  of  his  horse's  footsteps, 
though  she  listened  long  and  anxiously. 

"  He  is  certainly  the  most  provoking  man  I  ever  saw  ;" 
she  exclaimed,  half  crying  with  vexation.  "  Henry  wouldn't 
have  served  me  so,  and  I'm  glad  I  was  engaged  to  him  b* 


860  MAGGIE    MILLER. 

fore  I  saw  this  hateful  Carroll  ton,  for  grandma  might  po* 
sibly  have  coaxed  me  into  marrying  him,  and  then  wouldn't 
Mr.  Dog  and  Mrs.  Cat  have  led  a  stormy  life  1  No,  we 
wouldn't,"  she  continued  ;  "  I  should  in  time  get  accustomed 
tc  minding  him,  and  then  I  think  he'd  be  splendid,  though 
no  better  than  Henry.  I  wonder  if  Hagar  has  a  letter  for 
me  I"  and  chirruping  to  Gritty,  she  soon  stood  at  the  door 
of  the  cabin. 

"  Have  you  two  been  qarrelliog  ?"  asked  Hagar,  noticing 
Mag's  flushed  cheeks.  "  Mr.  Carrollton  passed  here  twenty 
minutes,  or  more,  ago,  looking  mighty  sober,  and  here  yon 
are  with  your  face  as  red — What  has  happened  ?" 

"  Nothing,"  answered  Mag,  a  little  testily,  "  only  he's  the 
meanest  man  ! — Wouldn't  follow  me,  when  I  leaped  the 
gorge,  and  I  know  he  could,  if  he  had  tried." 

"  Showed  his  good  sense,"  interrupted  Hagar,  adding  that 
Maggie  mustn't  think  every  man  was  going  to  risk  his  neck 
for  her. 

"  I  don't  think  so,  of  course,"  returned  Maggie  ;  "  but  he 
might  act  better — almost  commanded  me  to  conie  back  and 
join  him,  as  though  I  was  a  little  child  ;  but  I  wouldn't  do 
it.  I  told  him  I'd  go  down  to  the  long  bridge  and  cross, 
expecting,  of  course,  he'd  meet  me  there  ;  and  instead  of 
that,  he  has  gone  off  home.  How  did  he  know  what  acci 
dent  would  befall  me  ?" 

"  Accident  1"  repeated  Hagar  ;  "  accident  befall  you, 
tvho  know  every  crook  and  turn  of  these  woods  so  much 
better  than  he  does  ?" 

"  Well,  any  way,  he  might  have  waited  for  me,"  returned 
Mag,  "  I  don't  believe  he'd  care  if  I  were  to  get  killed.  I 
meai  to  scare  him  and  see  ;"  and  springing  from  Gritty'g 
back,  she  gave  a  peculiar  whistling  sound,  at  which  the 
pony  bounded  away  towards  home  while  she  followed  Hagar 


ARTHUR    CARROL^TON    AND    MAGGIE.  Ml 

iuto   the    cottage,    where   a   letter   from    Henry   awaited 
her. 

They  were  to  sail  for  Cuba  on  the  15th  of  October,  and 
be  now  wrote,  asking  if  Maggie  would  go  without  her 
grandmother's  consent.  But,  though  irresolute  when  he 
before  broached  the  subject,  Mag  was  decided  now.  "  She 
would  not  run  away,"  and  so  she  said  to  Hagar,  to  whom 
she  confided  the  whole  affair. 

"  I  do  not  think  it  would  be  right  to  elope,"  she  said. 
•'  In  three  years  more,  I  shall  be  twenty-one,  and  free  to  do 
as  I  like  ;  and  if  grandma  will  not  let  me  marry  Henry, 
now,  he  must  wait.  I  can't  run  away.  Rose  would  not 
.approve  of  it,  I'm  sure,  and  I  'most  know  Mr.  Carrol'ton 
would  not." 

"  I  can't  see  how  his  approving,  or  not  appioving  cat 
affect  you,"  said  Ilagar  ;  then  bending  down,  so  that  her 
wild  eyes  looked  full  in  Maggie's  eyes,  she  said,  "  Are  you 
beginning  to  like  this  Englishman  ?" 

"  Why,  no,  I  guess  I  ain't,"  answered  Mag,  coloring 
slightly.  "  I  dislike  him  dreadfully,  he's  so  proud.  Why, 
he  did  the  same  as  to  say,  that  if  I  were  your  grandchild, 
he  would  not  ride  with  me." 

"My     grandchild,     Maggie     Miller! — my    grandchild!" 
.  shrieked  Hagar.     "  What  put  that  into  his  head  ?" 

Thinking  her  emotion  caused  by  anger  at  Arthur  Carroll- 
ton,  Mag  mentally  chidcd  herself  for  having  inadvertently 
said  what  she  did,  while,  at  the  same  time,  she  tried  to 
Boot  he  old  Hagar,  who  rocked  to  and  fro,  as  was  her  cus 
tom  when  her  "  crazy  spells "  were  on.  Growing  a  little 
*  more  composed,  she  said,  at  last,  "  Marry  Henry  Warner, 
t>v  all  means,  Maggie  ;  he  ain't  as  proud  as  Carrollton — he 
would  not  care  as  much  if  he  knew  it." 

"Know  what?"  asked  Mag;  and,  remembering  herself  ia 
16 


*«*  MAGGIE    MILTER. 

time,  Ilagar  answered,  adroitly,  "knew  of  your  promise  to 
let  me  live  with  you.  You  remember  it,  don't  you  ?"  and 
she  looked  wistfully  towards  Mag,  who,  far  more  intent 
upon  something  else,  answered,  "  Yes,  I  remember.  But 
hush  !  don't  I  hear  horses'  feet  coming  rapidly  through  the 
woods  '("  and  running  to  the  window,  she  saw  Mr.  Carrollton, 
mounted  upon  Gritty,  and  riding  furiously  towards  the  house. 

"  You  go  out,  Hagar,  and  see  if  he  is  looking  for  me," 
whispered  Mag,  stepping  back,  so  he  could  not  see. 

"  Henry  Warner  must  snare  the  bird  quick,  or  he  will 
lose  it,"  muttered  Hagar,  as  she  walked  to  the  door,  where, 
evidently  much  excited,  Mr.  Carrolltou  asked  if  "  she  knew 
aught  of  Miss  Miller,  and  why  Gritty  had  come  home  alone  ? 
It  is  such  an  unusual  occurrence,"  said  he,  "  that  we  felt 
alarmed,  and  I  have  come  in  quest  of  her." 

From  her  post  near  the  window,  Maggie  could  plainly  see 
his  face,  which  was  very  pale,  and  expressive  of  much  con 
cern,  while  his  voice,  she  fancied,  trembled  as  he  spoke  her 
name. 

"  He  does  care,"  she  thought ;  woman's  pride  waj  satis 
fied,  and  ere  Hagar  could  reply,  she  ran  out  saying  laugh 
ingly,  "  And  so  you  thought  maybe  I  was  killed,  but  I'm 
not.  I  concluded  to  walk  home  and  let  Gritty  go  on  in  ad 
vance.  I  did  not  mean  to  frighten  grandma." 

"  She  was  not  as  much  alarmed  as  myself,"  said  Mr.  Car- 
rollton,  the  troubled  expression  of  his  countenance  changing 
at  once.  "  You  do  not  know  how  anxious  I  was,  when  I 
saw  Gritty  come  riderless  to  the  door,  nor  yet  how  relieved 
I  am  in  finding  you  thus  unharmed." 

Maggie  knew  she  did  not  deserve  this,  and  blushi  ig  like  a 
guilty  child,  she  offered  no  resistance  when  he  lifte  \  her  in 
the  saddle  gently — tenderly,  as  if  she  had  indeed  escaped 
from  some  great  danger. 


ARTHUR    CARROLLTON    AND    MAGGIE.  Sttl 

"  It  is  time  you  were  home,"  said  he,  and  throwing  tho 
bridle  across  his  arm,  he  rested  his  hand  upon  the  saddle 
and  walked  slowly  by  her  side. 

All  his  fancied  coldness  was  forgotten  ;  neither  was  th« 
leap  nor  yet  the  bridge  once  mentioned,  for  he  was  only  too 
happy  in  having  her  back  alive,  while  she  was  doubting  the 
propriety  of  an  experiment  which,  in  the  turn  matters  had 
taken,  seemed  to  involve  deception.  Observing  at  last  that 
he  occasionally  pressed  his  hand  upon  his  side,  she  asked 
the  cause,  and  was  told  that  he  had  formerly  been  subject 
to  a  pain  in  his  side,  which  excitement  or  fright  greitly 
augmented.  "  I  hoped  I  was  free  from  it,"  he  said,  "  but 
the  sight  of  Gritty  dashing  up  to  the  door  without ' you, 
brought  on  a  slight  attack  ;  for  I  knew  if  you  were  harmed, 
the  fault  was  mine  for  having  rather  unceremoniously 
deserted  you." 

This  was  more  than  Mag  could  endure  in  silence.  The 
frank  ingenuousness  of  her  nature  prevailed,  and  turning  t ,/• 
wards  him  her  dark,  beautiful  eyes,  in  which  tears  were 
Binning,  she  said  :  "  Forgive  me,  Mr.  Carrollton.  T  se^t 
Gritty  home  on  purpose  to  see  if  you  would  be  annoyed,  f°r 
I  felt  vexed  because  you  would  not  humor  my  whim  and 
meet  me  at  the  bridge.  I  am  sorry  I  caused  you  any  uneasi 
ness,"  she  continued,  as  she  saw  a  shadow  flit  over  his  face 
"  Will  you  forgive  me  ?" 

Arthur  Carrollton  could  not  resist  the  pleading  of  those 
lustrous  eyes,  nor  yet  refuse  to  take  the  ungloved  hand  she 
offered  him  ;  .and  if,  in  token  of  reconciliation,  he  did  press 
t  a  little  more  fervently  than  Henry  Warner  would  have 
thought  at  all  necessary,  he  only  did  what,  under  the  m- 
cumstauces,  it  was  very  natural  he  should  do.  From  tha 
first  Maggie  Miller  had  been  a  puzzle  to  Arthur  Carrollton  • 
but  he  was  fast  learning  to  read  her — was  beginning  to  nu 


864  MAGGIE    MILLER. 

derstand  how  perfectly  artless  she  was — anC  this  little  in« 
cident  increased,  rather  than  diminished,  his  admiration. 

"  I  will  forgive  you,  Maggie,"  he  said,  on  one  condition 
"You  must  promise  never  again  to  experiment  with  niy 
feelings,  in  a  similar  manner." 

The  promise  was  readily  given  and  then  they  proceeded 
on  as  leisurely  as  if  at  home,  there  was  no  anxious  grand 
mother  vibrating  between  her  high-backed  chair  and  the 
piazza,  nor  yet  an  Anna  Jeffrey,  watching  them  enviously  as 
they  came  slowly  up  the  road. 

That  night  there  came  to  Mr.  Carrollton  a  letter  from 
Montreal,  saying  his  immediate  presence  was  necessary  there, 
on  a  business  matter  of  some  importance,  and  he  accordingly 
decided  to  go  on  the  morrow. 

"  When  may  we  expect  you  back  ?"  asked  Madam  Con- 
woy,  as  in  the  morning  he  was  preparing  for  his  journey. 

"  It  will,  perhaps,  be  two  months  at  least,  before  I 
return,"  said  he,  adding  that  there  was  a  possibility  of  his 
being  obliged  to  go  immediately  to  England. 

In  the  recess  of  the  window  Mag  was  standing,  thinking 
how  lonely  the  house  would  be  without  him,  and  wishing 
there  was  no  such  thing  as  parting  from  those  she  liked — 
even  as  litfle  as  she  did  Arthur  Carrollton. 

"I  won't  let  him  know  that  I  care,  though,"'  she  thought, 
and  forcing  a  smile  to  her  face,  she  was  about  turning  to 
bid  him  good  bye,  when  she  heard  him  tell  her  grandmother 
of  the  possibility  there  was  that  he  would  be  obliged  to  go 
directly  to  England  from  Montreal. 

"Then  I  may  never  see  him  again,"  she  thought,  and  her 
tears  burst  forth  involuntarily,  at  the  idea  of  parting  with 
him  forever. 

Faster  and  faster  they  came,  until  at  last,  fearing  lest  he 
should  see  them,  she  rau  away  up  stairs,  and  mounting  to 


ARTHUR    CARROLLTON    AND    MAGGIE.  368 

the  n«of,  sat  down  bchiud  the  chimney,  where,  herself  unol> 
served,  she  could  watch  him  far  up  the  road.  From  the 
half-closed  door  of  her  chamber,  Anna  Jeffrey  had  seen  Mag 
stealing  up  the  tower  stairs  ;  had  seen,  too,  that  she  was 
weeping,  and  suspecting  the  cause,  she  went  quietly  down  to 
the  parlor  to  hear  what  Arthur  Carrollton  would  say.  The 
carriage  was  waiting,  his  trunk  was  in  its  place,  his  hat  was 
'iu  his  hand  ;  to  Madatn  Conway  he  said  good  bye  ;  to 
Anna  Jeffrey,  too,  and  still  he  lingered,  Icokiug  wistfully 
round  in  quect  of  something,  which  evidently  was  not 
there. 

"  Where's  Margaret  ?"  he  asked  at  last,  and  Madam  Con- 
way  answered,  "  surely,  where  can  she  be  ?  Have  you  seen 
her,  Anna  ?" 

"  I  saw  her  on  the  stairs  some  time  ago,"  SMd  Anna, 
adding  that  possibly  she  had  gone  to  see  Hag<tr,  as  she 
usually  visited  her  at  this  hour. 

A  shade  of  disappointment  passed  over  Mr.  Garrollton's 
face,  as  he  replied,  "  tell  her  I  am  sorry  she  thiuks  more  of 
Hagar  than  of  me." 

The  next  moment  he  was  gone,  and  leaning  against  the 
chimney,  Mag  watched  with  tearful  eyes  the  carriage  as  it 
wound  up  the  grassy  road.  On  the  brow  of  the  hill,  just 
before  it  would  disappear  from  sight,  it  suddenly  stopped. 
Something  was  the  matter  with  the  harness,  and  while  John 
was  busy  adjusting  it,  Mr.  Carrollton  leaned  from  the  win 
dow,  and  looking  back,  started  involuntarily  as  he  caught 
si<>'ht  of  the  figure  so  clearly  defined  upon  the  house-top.  A 
slight  suspicion  of  the  truth  came  upon  him,  and  kissing  his 
hand,  he  waved  it.  gracefully  towards  her.  Mag's  handker 
chief  was  wet  with  tears,  but  she  shook  it  out  in  the  morn« 
ing  breeze,  and  sent  to  Arthur  Carrollton,  as  she  thought 
her  last  good  bye. 


b*6  MAGGIE    MILLER. 

Fearing  lest  her  grandmother  should  see  her  swollen  eyes, 
she  stole  down  the  stairs,  and  taking  her  shawl  and  bonnet 
from  the  table  in  the  hall,  ran  off  into  the  woods,  going  to 
a  pleasant,  mossy  bank,  not  far  from  Hagar's  cottage,  where 
she  had  more  than  once  sat  with  Arthur  Carrollton,  and 
where  she  fancied  she  would  never  sit  with  him  again. 

"  I  don't  believe  it's  for  him,  that  I  am  crying,"  she 
thought,  as  she  tried  in  vain  to  stay  her  tears  ;  "  I  always 
intended  to  hate  him,  and  I  'most  know  I  do  ;  I'm  only  feel 
ing  badly,  because  I  won't  run  away,  and  Henry  and  Rose 
will  go  without  me  so  soon  !"  And  fully  satisfied  at  having 
discovered  the  real  cause  of  her  grief,  she  laid  her  head 
upon  the  bright  autumnal  grass,  and  wept  bitterly,  holding 
her  breath,  and  listening  intently  as  she  heard,  in  the  dis 
tance,  the  sound  of  the  engine,  which  was  bearing  Mr.  Car 
rollton  away. 

It  did  not  occur  to  her  that  he  could  not  yet  have 
reached  the  depot,  and  as  she  knew  nothing  of  a  change  in 
the  time  of  the  trains,  she  was  taken  wholly  by  surprise, 
when,  fifteen  minutes  later,  a  manly  form  bent  over  her,  as 
she  lay  upon  the  bank,  and  a  voice,  earnest  and  thrilling  in 
tones,  murmured  softly,  "  Maggie,  are  those  tears  for  me  ?" 

When  about  halfway  to  the  station,  Mr.  Carrollton  had 
heard  of  the  change  of  the  time,  and  knowing  he  should  not 
be  in  season,  had  turned  back,  with  the  intention  of  waiting 
for  the  next  train,  which  would  pass  in  a  few  hours.  Learn 
ing  that  Maggie  was  in  the  woods,  he  had  started  in  quest 
of  her,  going  naturally  to  the  mossy  bank,  where,  as  we 
have  seen,  he  found  her  weeping  on  the  grass.  She  was 
weeping  for  him — he  was  sure  of  that.  He  was  not  indiffe 
rent  to  her,  as  he  had  sometimes  feared,  and  for  an  instant 
he  felt  tempted  to  take  her  in  his  arms  and  tell  her  how  deal 
she  was  to  him. 


ARTHUR    CARROLLTON    A\D    MAGGIE.  387 

"  I  will  speak  to  her  first,"  he  thought,  and  so  he  a  iked 
'  if  the  tears  were  for  him." 

Inexpressibly  astonished  and  mortified  at  having  him  see 
her  thus,  Maggie  started  to  her  feet,  while  angry  words  at 
being  thus  intruded  upon,  trembled  on  her  lips.  But  wind 
ing  his  arm  around  her,  Mr.  Carrollton  drew  her  to  his  side, 
explaining  to  her  in  a  few  words  how  he  came  to  be  there, 
and  continuing,  "  I  do  not  regret  the  delay,  if  by  its  means 
I  have  discovered  what  I  very  much  wish  to  know.  Mag 
gie,  do  you  care  for  me  ?  Were  you  weeping  because  I  had 
left  you  ?" 

He  drew  her  very  closely  to  him — looking  anxiously  into 
her  face,  which  she  covered  with  her  hands.  She  knew  ht 
was  in  earnest,  and  the  knowledge  that  he  loved  her  thrilled 
her  for  an  instant  with  indescribable  happiness.  A  moment, 
however,  and  thoughts  of  her  engagement  with  another 
flashed  upon  her.  "  She  must  not  sit  there  thus  with  Ar 
thur  Carrollton — she  would  be  true  to  Henry,"  and  with 
mingled  feelings  of  sorrow,  regret  and  anger — though  why 
she  should  experience  either  she  did  not  then  understand — 
she  drew  herself  from  him,  and  when  he  said  again,  "  Will 
Maggie  answer  ?  Are  those  tears  for  me  ?"  she  replied  petu 
lantly,  "  No  ;  can't  a  body  cry  without  being  bothered  for  a 
reason  ?  I  came  down  here  to  be  alone  ?" 

"  I  did  not  mean  to  intrude,  and  I  beg  your  pardon  for 
having  done  so,"  said  Mr.  Carrollton,  sadly,  adding,  as  Mag 
gie  made  no  reply,  "  I  expected  a  different  answer,  Maggie  ; 
I  almost  hoped  you  liked  me,  and  I  believe  now  that  you 
do." 

In  Maggie's  bosom  there  was  a  fierce  struggle  of  feeling 
She  did  like  Arthur  Carrollton — and  she  thought  she  liked 
Henry  Warner — at  all  events  she  was  engaged  to  him,  and 
halt'  angry  at  the  former  for  having  disturbed  her,  and  still 


ff68  MAGGIE    MTLLEK. 

more  angry  at  herself  for  being  thus  disturbed,  she  exclaimed 
as  he  again  placed  his  arm  around  her,  "  Leave  me  alone, 
Mr.  Carrollton.  I  don't  like  you.  I  don't  like  anybody  1'' 
and  gathering  up  her  shawl,  which  lay  upon  the  grass,  she 
ran  away  to  Hagar's  cabin,  hoping  he  would  follow  her. 
But  he  did  not.  It  was  his  first  attempt  at  love-making, 
and  very  much  disheartened,  he  walked  slowly  back  to  the 
house ;  and  while  Maggie,  from  Hagar's  door,  was  looking 
to  see  if  he  were  coming,  he,  from  the  parlor  window,  was 
watching,  too,  for  her,  with  a  shadow  on  his  brow  and  a  load 
upon  his  heart.  Madam  Conway  knew  that  something  was 
wrong,  but  it  was  in  vain  that  she  sought  an  explanation. 
Mr.  Carrollton  kept  his  own  secret,  and  consoling  herself  with 
his  volunteered  assurance  that  in  case  it  became  necessary 
for  him  to  return  to  England,  he  should,  before  embarking, 
visit  Hillsdale,  she  bade  him  a  second  adieu. 

In  the  meantime,  Maggie,  having  given  up  all  hopes  of 
again  seeing  Mr.  Carrollton,  was  waiting  impatiently  the 
coining  of  Hagar,  who  was  absent,  having,  as  Maggie 
readily  conjectured,  gone  to  Richland.  It  was  long  past 
noon  when  she  returned,  and  by  that  time  the  stains  had 
disappeared  from  Maggie's  face,  which  looked  nearly  as 
bright  as  ever.  Still,  it  was  with  far  less  eagerness  thau 
usual  that  she  took  from  Hagar's  hand  the  expected  letter 
from  Henry.  It  was  a  long,  affectionate  epistle,  urging  her 
once  more  to  accompany  him,  and  saying  if  she  still  refused 
she  must  let  him  know  immediately,  as  they  were  intending 
to  start  for  New  York  in  a  few  days. 

"  I  can't  go,"  said  Maggie  ;  "  it  would  not  be  right." 
And  going  to  the  time-worn  desk,  where,  since  her  secret 
correspondence,  she  had  kept  materials  for  writing,  sha 
wrote  to  Henry  a  letter,  telling  him  she  felt  badly  to  disap 
point  him,  but  she  deemed  it  much  wiser  to  defer  their  mar- 


ARTHUR  CARROLLTON   AND   MAGGIE.  S69 

riage  until  her  grandmother  felt  differently,  or  at  least  untl 
ehe  was  at  an  age  to  act  for  herself.  This  beiug  done,  sh« 
went  slowly  back  to  the  house,  which  to  her  seemed  desolate 
indeed,  Her  grandmother  saw  readily  that  something  was 
the  matter,  and  rightly  guessing  the  cause,  she  forebore 
questioning  her,  neither  did  she  once  that  day  mention  Mr. 
Carrollton,  although  Anna  Jeffrey  did,  telling  her  what  he 
had  said  about  her  "  thinking  more  of  Hagar  than  of  him 
self,"  and  giving  as  her  opinion  that  be  was  much  displeased 
at  her  rudeness  in  running  away. 

"  Nobody  cares  for  his  displeasure,"  answered  Maggie, 
greatly  vexed  at  Anna,  who  took  especial  delight  in  annoy 
ing  her. 

Thus  a  week  went  by,  when  one  evening,  as  Madam  Con 
way  and  Maggie  sat  together  in  the  parlor,  they  were  sur 
prised  by  the  sudden  appearance  of  Henry  Warner.  He 
had  accompanied  his  aunt  and  sister  to  New  York,  where 
they  were  to  remain  for  a  few  days,  and  then  impelled  by  a 
strong  desire  to  see  Margaret  once  more,  he  had  come  with 
the  vain  hope  that  at  the  last  hour  she  would  consent  to  fly 
with  him,  or  her  grandmother  consent  to  give  her  up.  All 
the  afternoon  he  had  been  at  Hagar's  cottage  waiting  for 
Maggie,  and  at  length  determining  to  see  her,  he  had  ven 
tured  to  the  hou^e.  With  a  scowling  frown,  Madam  Con- 
way  looked  at  him  through  her  glasses,  while  Maggie,  half 
joyfully,  half  fear"ully,  went  forward  to  meet  him.  In  a  few 
words  he  explained  why  he  was  there,  and  then  a,gain  asked 
of  Madam  Comvay  if  Margaret  could  go. 

"  I  do  not  believe  she  cares  to  go,"  thought  Madam  Con- 
way,  as  she  glanced  at  Maggie's  face  ;  but  she  did  not  say 
eo,  lest  she  should  awaken  within  the  young  girl  a  feeling 
of  opposition. 

She  had  watched  Maggie  closely,  and  felt  sure  that  he' 
16* 


870  MAGGIE    MILLER. 

affection  for  Henry  Warner  was  neither  deep  noi  lasting 
Arthur  Carrollton's  presence  had  done  much  towards  weak 
ening  it,  and  a  few  months  more  would  suffice  to  wear  it 
away  entirely.  Still,  from  what  had  passed,  she  fancied  thaf 
opposition  alone  would  only  make  the  matter  worse  by  rous 
ing  Maggie  at  once.  She  knew  far  more  of  human  nature 
than  either  of  the  young  people  before  her  ;  and  after  a, 
little  reflection,  she  suggested  that  Henry  should  leave  Mag 
gie  with  her  for  a  year,  during  which  time  no  communica 
tion  whatever  should  pass  between  them,  while  she  would 
promise  faithfully  not  to  influence  Margaret  either  way. 

"  If  at  the  end  of  the  year,"  said  she,  "  you  both  retain 
for  each  other  the  feelings  you  have  now,  I  will  no  longer 
object  to  the  marriage,  but  will  make  the  best  of  it." 

At  first,  Henry  spurned  at  the  proposition,  and  when  he 
saw  that  Margaret  thought  well  of  it,  he  reproached  her 
with  a  want  of  feeling,  saying  "  she  did  not  love  him  as  she 
had  once  done." 

"  I  shall  not  forget  you,  Henry,"  said  Maggie,  coming  to 
his  side  and  taking  his  hand  in  hers,  "  neither  will  you  for 
get  me  ;  and  when  the  year  has  passed  away,  only  think 
how  much  pleasanter  it  will  be  for  us  to  be  married  here  at 
home,  with  grandma's  blessing  on  our  union  !" 

"  If  I  only  knew  you  would  prove  true  I"  said  Henry., 
who  missed  something  in  Maggie's  manner. 

"  I  do  mean  to  prove  true,"  she  answered  sadly,  though 
at  that  moment  another  face,  another  form,  stood  between 
her  and  Henry  Warner,  who,  knowing  that  Madam  Conway 
would  not  suffer  her  to  go  with  him  on  any  terms,  concluded 
at  last  to  make  a  virtue  of  necessity,  and  accordingly  ex 
pressed  his  willingness  to  wait,  provided  Margaret  were  al 
lowed  to  write  occasionally  either  to  himself  or  Rose. 

But  to  this  Madam  Conway  would  not  consent.     "  She 


ARTHUR  CAKROLLTON  AND  MAGGIE.          w* 

wished  the  test  to  be  perfect,"  she  said,  "  and  unless  he  ac 
cepted  her  terms,  he  must  give  Maggie  up,  at  once  and  for- 
ever." 

As  there  seemed  no  alternative,  Henry  rather  ungraciously 
yielded  the  point,  promising  to  leave  Maggie  free  for  a  year, 
while  she,  too,  promised  not  to  write  either  to  him  or  to 
Rose,  except  with  her  grandmother's  consent.  Maggie 
Miller's  word  once  passed,  Madam  Conway  knew  it  would 
not  be  broken,  and  she  unhesitatingly  left  the  young  people 
together  while  they  said  their  parting  words.  A  message 
of  love  from  Maggie  to  Rose — a  hundred  protestations  of 
eternal  fidelity,  and  then  they  parted  :  Henry,  sad  and  dis 
appointed,  slowly  wending  his  way  back  to  the  spot  where 
Hagar  impatiently  awaited  his  coming,  while  Maggie,  lean 
ing  from  her  chamber  window,  and  listening  to  the  sound 
of  his  retreating  footsteps,  brushed  away  a  tear,  wondering 
the  while  why  it  was  that  fke  felt  so  relieved. 


11  AGGIE    MJUKU. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

PERPLEXITY. 

HALF  iu  sorrow,  half  in  joy,  old  Hagar  listened  to  tne 
story  which  Henry  told  her,  standing  at  her  cottage  door. 
In  sorrow,  because  she  had  learned  to  like  the  young  man, 
learned  to  think  of  him  as  Maggie's  husband,  who  would 
not  wholly  cast  her  off,  if  her  secret  should  chance  to  be 
divulged;  and  in  joy,  because  her  idol  would  be  with  her  yet 
a  little  longer. 

"  Maggie  will  be  faithful  quite  as  long  as  you,"  she  said, 
when  he  expressed  his  fears  of  her  forge tfnlness ;  and  trying 
to  console  himself  with  this  assurance,  he  sprang  into  the 
carriage  in  which  he, had  come,  and  was  driven  rapidly 
away. 

He  was  too  late  for  the  night  express,  but  taking  the 
early  morning  train,  he  reached  New  York  just,  as  the  sun 
was  setting. 

"Alone  !  my  brother,  alone  ?"  queried  Roso,  as  he  entered 
the  private  parlor  of  the  hotel  where  she  was  staying  with 
her  aunt. 

"Yes,  alone,  just  as  I  expected,"  he  answered,  somewhat 
bitterly.  • 

Then  very  briefly  he  related  to  her  the  particulars  of  his 
adventure,  to  which  she  listened  eagerly,  one  moment  chiding 
herself  for  the  faint,  shadowy  hope  which  whispered  that 


PERPLEXITY.  878 

possibly  Maggie  Miller  would  never  be  his  wife,  and  again 
sympathizing  in  his  disappointment. 

"  A  year  would  not  be  very  long,"  she  said  "and  in  the 
new  scenes  to  which  he  was  going,"  a  part  of  it  would  pass 
rapidly  away  ;"  and  then  in  her  childlike,  guileless  manner, 
she  drew  a  glowing  picture  of  the  future,  when,  her  own 
health  restored,  they  would  return  to  their  old  home  in 
I  jcominster,  where,  after  a  few  mouths  more,  he  would  bring 
*o  them  his  bride. 

"You  are  my  comforting  angel,  Rose,"  he  said,  folding  her 
lovingly  in  his  arras,  and  kissing  her  smooth  white  cheek. 
"  With  such  a  treasure  as  you  for  a  sister,  I  ought  not  tc 
repine,  even  though  Maggie  Miller  should  never  be  mine." 

The  words  were  lightly  spoken,  arid  by  him  soon  forgot 
ten,  but  Rose  remembered  them  long,  dwelling  upon  them 
in  the  wearisome  nights,  when  in  her  narrow  berth,  she 
listened  to  the  swelling  sea,  as  it  dashed  against  the  vessel's 
side.  Many  a  fond  remembrance,  too,  she  gave  to  Maggie 
Miller,  who,  in  her  woodland  home,  thought  often  of  the 
travellers  on  the  sea,  never  wishing  that  she  was  with  them; 
but  experiencing  always  a  feeling  of  pleasure  in  knowing 
that  she  was  Maggie  Miller  yet,  and  should  be  until  next 
year's  autumn  leaves  were  falling. 

Of  Arthur  Carrollton  she  thought  frequently,  wishing  sho 
had  not  been  so  rude  that  morning  in  the  woods,  and  feeling 
vexed  because  in  his  letters  to  her  grandmother,  he  merely 
eaid;  Remember  me  to  Margaret." 

"I  wish  he  would  write  something  besides  that,"  sbe 
thought,  "for  I  remember  him  now  altogether  too  much  for 
my  own  good;"  and  then  she  wondered  "what  he  would  have 
said  that  morning,  if  she  had  not  been  so  cross." 

Very  little  was  said  to  her  of  him  by  Madam  Conway, 
who,  having  learned  that  he  was  not  going  to  England,  and 


S74  MAGGIE    MILLER. 

would  ere  long  return  to  them,  concluded  for  a  time  to  let 
the  matter  rest,  particularly  as  she  knew  how  much  Maggie 
was  already  interested  in  one  whom  she  had  resolved  to 
hate.  Feeling  thus  confident  that  all  would  yet  end  well, 
Madam  Gouway  was  in  unusually  good  spirits,  save  when 
thoughts  of  Mrs.  Douglas  senior  obtruded  themselves  upon 
her.  Then,  indeed,  in  a  most  unenviable  state  of  mind,  she 
repined  at  the  disgrace  which  Theo  had  brought  upon  them, 
and  charged  Maggie  repeatedly  to  keep  it  a  secret  from 
Mrs.  Jeffrey  and  Anna,  the  first  of  whom  made  many 
inquiries  concerning  the  family,  which  she  supposed  of  course 
was  very  aristocratic. 

One  clay  towards  the  last  of  November,  there  came  to 
Madam  Couway  a  letter  from  Mrs.  Douglas  senior,  wonder 
ful  alike  in  composition  and  appearance.  Directed  wrong 
tiide  up,  sealed  with  a  wafer,  and  stamped  with  a  thimble,  it 
bore  an  unmistakable  resemblance  to  its  writer,  who  expressed 
many  regrets  that  "  she  had  not  known  in  the  time  on't, 
who  her  illustrious  visitors  were." 

"  If  I  had  known,"  she  wrote,  "  I  should  have  sot  the 
table  in  the  parlor  certiug,  for  though  I'm  plain  and  home 
spun,  I  know  as  well  as  the  next  one  what  good  manners  is, 
and  do  my  endeavors  to  practise  it.  But  do  tell  a  body," 
she  continued,  "  where  you  was,  muster  day  in  Wooster. 
I  knocked  and  pounded  enough  to  raise  the  dead,  and 
nobody  answered.  I  never  noticed  you  was  deaf  when  you 
Was  here,  though  Betsey  Jane  thinks  she  did.  If  you  be, 
I'll  send  you  up  a  receipt  for  a  kind  of  intment  which  Miss 
Sam  Babbit  invented,  and  which  cures  everything. 

"  Theodoshy  has  been  to  see  us,  and  though  in  my  way 
of  thinkic',  she  ain't  as  handsome  as  Margaret,  she  looks  as 
well  as  the  ginerality  of  women.  I  liked  her.  too,  aud  us 


PERPLEXITY.  876 

soon  as  the  men's  winter  clothes  is  off  my  hands,  I  ealkcr- 
late  to  have  a  quiltiu',  and  finish  up  another  bedquilt  to 
eend  her,  for  manlike,  George  has  furnished  up  his  rooms 
with  all  sorts  of  nicknacks,  and  got  only  two  blankets,  and 
two  Marsales  spreads  for  his  bed.  So  I've  sent  'em  down 
the  herriu'-bone  and  risin'  sun  quilts  for  every  day  wear,  as 
I  don't  believe  in  usiii'  your  best  things  all  the  time.  My 
old  man  says  I'd  better  let  'em  alone  ;  but  he's  got  some 
queer  ideas,  thinks  you'll  sniff  your  nose  at  my  letter,  and 
all  that,  but  I've  more  charity  for  folks,  and  well  I  might 
have,  bein'  that's  my  name. 

"  CHARITY  DOUGLAS." 

To  this  letter  were  appended  three  different  postscripts. 
In  the  first  Madam  Conway  and  Maggie  were  cordially 
invited  to  visit  Charlton  again  ;  in  the  second  Betsey  Jane 
sent  her  regrets;  while  in  the  third  Madam  Conway  was 
particularly  requested  to  excuse  haste  and  a  bad  pen. 

"  Disgusting  creature  !"  was  Madam  Couway's  exclama 
tion,  as  she  finished  reading  the  letter,  then  tossing-  it  into 
the  fire  she  took  up  another  one,  which  had  come  by  tlie 
same  mail,  and  was  from  Theo  herself. 

After  dwelling  at  length  upon  the  numerous  calls  sho 
made,  the  parties  she  attended,  the  compliments  she  received, 
and  her  curiosity  to  know  why  her  grandmother  came  back 
that  day,  she  spoke  of  her  recent  visit  in  Charlton. 

"  You  have  been  there,  it  seems,"  she  wrote,  "  so  I  need 
dot  particularize,  though  I  know  how  shocked  and  disap 
pointed  yon  must  have  been  ;  and  I  think  it  very  kind  in 
you  not  to  have  said  anything  upon  the  subject,  except  that 
you  had  called  there,  for  George  reads  all  my  letters,  and  I 
would  not  have  his'  feelings  hurt.  He  had  prepared  me  in 
a  measure  for  the  visit,  but  the  reality  was  even  worse  thav 


87«  MAGGIE    MILLER. 

I  anticipated.  And  still  they  are  the  kindest  hearted  peo 
ple  in  the  world,  while  Mr.  Douglas  is  a  man,  they  say,  of 
excellent  sense.  George  never  lived  at  home  much,  and 
their  heathenish  ways  mortify  him  I  know,  though  he  never 
Bays  a  word,  except  that  they  are  his  parents. 

"  People  here  respect  George,  too,  quite  as  much  as  if  he 
were  a  Conway,  and  I  sometimes  think  they  like  him  all  the 
better  for  being  so  kind  to  his  old  father,  who  comes  fre 
quently  to  the  store.  Grandma,  I  begin  to  think  differently 
of  some  things  from  what  I  did.  Birth  and  blood  do  not 
make  much  difference  in  this  country,  at  least  ;  and  still  I 
must  acknowledge  that  I  should  feel  dreadfully  if  I  did  not 
love  George  and  know  that  he  is  the  kindest  husband  in  the 
world." 

The  letter  closed  with  a  playful  insinuation  that  as  Henry 
Warner  had  gone,  Maggie  might  possibly  marry  Arthur 
Carrollton,  and  so  make  amends  for  the  disgrace  which 
Theo  had  unwittingly  brought  upon  the  Conway  line. 

For  a  long  time  after  finishing  the  above,  Madam  Conway 
sat  rapt  in  thought.  Could  it  be  possible  that  during  all 
her  life,  she  had  labored  under  a  mistake  ?  Were  birth  and 
family  rank  really  of  no  consequence  ?  Was  George  just 
as  worthy  of  respect  as  if  he  had  descended  directly  from 
the  Scottish  race  of  Douglas,  instead  of  belonging  to  that 
vulgar  woman  ?  "  It  may  be  so  in  America,"  she  sighed  ; 
"  but  it  is  not  true  of  England,"  and  sincerely  hoping  that 
Theo's  remark  concerning  Mr.  Carrollton  might  prove  true, 
she  laid  aside  the  letter,  and  for  the  remainder  of  the  day, 
busied  herself  with  preparations  for  the  return  of  Arthur 
Carrollton,  who  had  written  that  he  should  be  with  them 
on  the  first  of  December. 

The  day  came,  and,  unusually  excited,  Maggie  flitted  from 


PERPLEXITY.  STJ 

room  to  room,  seeing  that  everything  was  in  order,  wonder 
ing  how  he  would  meet  her  and  if  he  had  forgiven  hel 
for  having  been  so  cross  at  their  last  interview  in  the  woods 
The  effect  of  every  suitable  dress  in  her  wardrobe  was  tried, 
and  she  decided  at  last  upon  a  crimson  and  black  merino, 
which  harmonized  well  with  her  dark  eyes  and  hair.  The 
dress  was  singularly  becoming,  and  feeling  quite  well  satis 
fied  with  the  face  and  form  reflected  by  her  mirror,  she 
descended  to  the  parlor,  where  any  doubts  she  might  have 
had  concerning  her  personal  appearance  were  put  to  flight 
by  Anna  Jeffrey,  who,  with  a  feeling  of  envy,  asked  "  if  she 
had  the  scarlet  fever  !"  referring  to  her  bright  color,  and 
eaying,  she  "  did  not  think  too  red  a  face  becoming  to  any 
one,  particularly  to  Margaret,  to  whom  it  gave  a  blowsy 
look,  such  as  she  had  more  than  once  heard  Mr.  Carrollton 
say  he  did  not  like  to  see  1" 

Margaret  knew  well  that  the  dark-browed  girl  would  give 
almost  anything  for  the  roses  blooming  on  her  cheeks  ;  so 
she  made  no  reply,  but  simply  wished  Anna  would  return  to 
England,  as  for  the  last  two  months  she  had  talked  of  doing 
It  was  not  quite  dark,  and  Mr.  Carrollton,  if  he  came  that 
night,  would  be  with  them  soon.  The  car  whistle  had 
sounded  some  time  before,  and  Maggie's  quick  ear  caught  at 
last  the  noise  of  the  bells  in  the  distance.  Nearer  and 
nearer  they  came  ;  the  sleigh  was  at  the  door,  and  forget 
ting  everything  but  her  own  happiness,  Maggie  ran  out  to 
meet  their  guest,  nor  turned  her  glowing  face  away  when  he 
stooped  down  to  kiss  her.  lie  had  forgiven  her  ill-nature, 
she  was  certain  of  that,  and  very  joyfully  she  led  the  way 
to  the  parlor,  where  as  the  full  light  of  the  lamp  fell  upon 
him  she  started  involuntarily,  he  seemed  so  changed. 

"  Are  you  sick  ?"  she  asked,  and  her  voice  expressed  tha 
deep  auxiuty  she  felt. 


378  MAGGIE    MILLER. 

Forcing  back  a  slight  cough  and  smiling  down  upon  her 
he  answered  cheerfully,  "  Oh  no,  not  sick.  Canada  ah 
does  not  agree  with  me  ;  that's  all.  I  took  a  severe  cold, 
Boon  after  my  arrival  in  Montreal,"  and  the  cough  he  had 
attempted  to  stifle,  now  burst  forth,  sounding  to  Maggie, 
who  thought  only  of  consumption,  like  an  echo  from  the 
grave. 

"  Oh,  I  am  so  sorry,"  she  answered  sadly,  and  her  eyes 
filled  with  tears,  which  she  did  not  try  to  conceal,  for  look 
ing  through  the  window  across  the  snow-clad  field  on  which 
the  winter  moon  was  shining,  she  saw  instinctively  another 
grave  beside  that  of  her  mother. 

Madam  Conway  had  not  yet  appeared,  and  as  Anna  Jef 
frey  just  then  left  the  room,  Mr.  Carrollton  was  for  some 
moments  alone  with  Maggie.  Winding  his  arm  around  her 
waist,  and  giving  her  a  most  expressive  look,  he  said,  "  Mag 
gie,  are  those  tears  for  me  ?" 

Instantly  the  bright  blushes  stole  over  Maggie's  face  and 
neck,  for  she  remembered  the  time  when  once -before  he  had 
asked  her  a  similar  question.  Not  now,  as  then,  did  she 
turn  from  him  away,  but  she  answered  frankly,  "  Yes,  they 
are.  You  look  so  pale  and  thin,  I'm  sure  you  must  be  very 
ill." 

Whether  Mr.  Carrolltou  liked  blowsy  complexions  or  not, 
he  certainly  admired  Maggie's  at  that  moment,  and  drawing 
her  closer  to  his  side,  he  said,  half  playfully,  half  earnestly, 
"  To  see  you  thus  anxious  for  me,  Maggie,  more  than  atones 
for  your  waywardness  when  last  we  parted.  You  are  for 
given,  but  you  are  unnecessarily  alarmed.  I  shall  be  better 
soon.  Hillsdale  air  will  do  me  good,  and  I  intend  remain 
ing  here  until  I  am  well  again.  Will  you  nurse  me,  Mag 
gie,  just  as  my  sister  Helen  would  do,  were  she  here  ?" 

The  right  chord  was  touched,  and  all  the  soft,  womanlj 


PERPLEXITY.  8*9 

qualities  of  Maggie  Miller's  nature  were  called  forth  by  Ar 
thur  Carrollton's  failing  health.  For  several  weeks  after  hia 
arrival  at  Hillsdale  he  was  a  confirmed  invalid,  lying  all 
day  upon  the  sofa  in  the  parlor,  while  Maggie  read  to  him 
from  books  which  he  selected,  partly  for  the  purpose  of 
amusing  himself,  and  more  for  the  sake  of  benefiting  her  and 
improving  her  taste  for  literature.  At  other  times,  he  would 
tell  her  of  his  home  beyond  the  sea,  and  Maggie,  listening 
to  him  while  he  described  its  airy  halls,  its  noble  parks,  its 
shaded  walks  and  musical  fountains,  would  sometimes  wish 
aloud  that  she  might  one  day  see  that  spot  which  seemed  to 
her  so  much  like  paradise.  He  wished  so,  too,  and  often 
times  when,  with  half-closed  eyes,  his  mind  was  wandering 
amid  the  scenes  of  his  youth,  he  saw  at  his  side  a  queenly 
figure  with  features  like  those  of  Maggie  Miller,  who  each 
day  was  stealing  more  and  more  into  his  heart,  where 
love  for  other  than  his  nearest  friends  had  never  before 
i  found  entrance.  She  had  many  faults,  he  knew,  but  these 
he  possessed  both  the  will  and  the  power  to  correct,  and  as 
day  after  day  she  sat  reading  at  his  side,  he  watched  her 
bright,  animated  face,  thinking  what  a  splendid  woman  she 
would  make,  and  wondering  if  an  American  rose  like  her 
would  bear  transplanting  to  English  soil. 

Very  complacently  Madam  Conway  looked  on,  reading 
aright  the  admiration  which  Arthur  Carrollton  evinced  for 
Margaret,  who  in  turn  was  far  from  being  uninterested  in 
him.  Anna  Jeffrey,  too,  watched  them  jealously,  ponder 
ing  in  her  own  mind  some  means  by  which  she  could,  if  possi 
ble,  annoy  Margaret.  Had  she  known  how  far  matters  had 
gone  with  Henry  Warner,  she  wouid  unhesitatingly  have 
told  it  to  Arthur  Carrollton  ;  but  so  quietly  had  the  affair 
been  managed  that  she  knew  comparatively  but  little.  Thig 
little,  however,  she  determined  to  tell  him,  together  with 


880  MAGGIE    MILLER. 

any  embellishments  she  might  see  fit  to  use.  Accordingly 
one  afternoon,  when  he  had  been  there  two  months  or  more, 
and  Maggie  had  gone  with  her  grandmother  to-  ride,  she 
went  down  to  the  parlor  under  pretence  of  getting  a  book 
to  read.  He  was  much  better  now,  but  feeling  somewhat 
fatigued  from  a  walk  he  bad  taken  in  the  yard,  he  was  re 
clining  upon  the  sofa.  Leaning  over  the  rocking-chair 
which  stood  near  by,  Anna  inquired  for  his  health,  and  then 
asked  how  long  since  he  had  heard  from  home. 

He  liked  to  talk.of  England,  and  as  there  was  nothing 
to  him  particularly  disagreeable  in  Anna  Jeffrey,  he  bade 
her  be  seated.  Very  willingly  she  complied  with  his  request, 
and  after  talking  awhile  of  England,  announced  her  inten 
tion  of  returning  home  the  last  of  March.  "  My  aunt  prefers 
remaining  with  Madam  Conway,  but  I  don't  like  America," 
said  she,  "  and  I  often  wonder  why  I  am  here." 

"  I  supposed  you  came  to  be  with  your  aunt,  who,  I  am 
told,  has  been  to  you  a  second  mother,"  answered  Mr.  Car- 
rollton  ;  and  Anna  replied,  "  You  are  right.  She  could  not 
be  easy  until  she  got  me  here,  where  I  know  I  am  not 
wanted  ;  at  least  one  would  be  glad  to  have  me  leave." 

Mr.  Carrollton  looked  inquiringly  at  her,  and  Anna  con 
tinued  :  "  I  fully  supposed  I  was  to  be  a  companion  for  Mar 
garet  ;  but  instead  of  that  she  treats  me  with  the  utmost 
coolness,  making  me  feel  keenly  my  position  as  a  dependent." 
"  That  does  not  seem  at  all  like  Maggie,"  said  Mr.  Car 
rollton,  and  with  a  meaning  smile  far  more  expressive  than 
words,  Anna  answered,  "  She  may  not  always  be  alike,  but 
hush  1  don't  I  hear  bells  ?"  and  she  ran  to  the  window,  say 
ing  as  she  resumed  her  seat,  "  I  thought  they  had  como, 
but  I  was  mistaken.  I  dare  say  Maggie  has  coaxed  her 
grandmother  to  drive  by  the  post  office,  thinking  there 
inight  be  a  letter  from  Henry  Warner. 


PERPLEXITY.  381 

Her  manner  affected  Mr.  Carrollton  perceptibly,  but  he 
made  no  reply;  and  Anna  asked  "if  he  knew  Mr.  War 
ner  ?" 

"  I  saw  him  in  Worcester,  I  believe,"  he  said,  and  Anna 
continued,  "  Do  you  think  him  a  suitable  husband  for  a  gir 
like  Maggie  ?" 

There  was  a  deep  flush  on  Arthur  Cafrollton's  cheek,  and 
his  lips  were  whiter  than  their  wont  as  he  answered,  "  I 
know  nothing  of  him,  neither  did  I  suppose  Miss  Miller  ever 
thought  of  him  for  a  husband." 

"  I  know  she  did  at  one  time,"  said  his  tormentor,  turn 
ing  the  leaves  of  her  book,  with  well  feigned  indifference. 
"  It  was  not  any  secret,  or  I  should  not  speak  of  it  ;  of 
course  Madam  Conway  was  greatly  opposed  to  it,  too,  and 
forbade  her  writing  to  him  ;  but  how  the  matter  is  now,  I 
do  not  positively  know,  though  I  am  quite  sure  they  are  en 
gaged." 

"  Isn't  it  very  close  here  ?  Will  you  please  to  open  the  hall 
door  ?"  said  Mr.  Carrollton,  suddenly  panting  for  breath  ; 
and  satisfied  with  her  work,  Anna  did  as  desired  and  then 
left  him  alone. 

"  Maggie  engaged  !"  he  exclaimed,  "  engaged,  when  I 
was  hoping  to  win  her  for  myself !"  and  a  sharp  pang  shot 
through  his  heart  as  he  thought  of  giving  to  another  the 
beautiful  girl  who  had  grown  so  into  his  love.  "  But  I  am 
glad  I  learned  it  in  time,"  he  continued,  hurriedly  walking 
the  floor,  "  knew  it  ere  I  had  done  Henry  Warner  a  wrong, 
by  telling  her  of  my  love,  and  asking  her  to  go  with  me  to 
iny  English  home,  which  will  be  desolate  without  her.  This 
is  why  she  repulsed  me  in  the  woods.  She  knew  I 
ought  not  to  speak  of  love  to  her.  Why  didn't  I  see  it  be 
fore,  or  why  has  not  Madam  Conway  told  me  the  truth  ? 
She  at  least  has  deceived  me,"  and  witl  a  feeling  of  kecr 


38*  MAGGIE    MILLER. 

disappointment,  he  continued  to  pace  the  floor,  one  moment 
resolving  to  leave  Hillsdale  at  once,  and  again,  thinking  how 
impossible  it  was  to  tear  himself  away. 

Arthur  Carrollton  was  a  perfectly  honorable  man,  and 
once  assured  of  Maggie's  engagement,  he  would  neither  by 
word  or  deed  do  aught  to  which  the  most  fastidious  lover 
could  object,  and  Henry  Warner's  rights  were  as  safe  with 
him  as  with  the  truest  of  friends.  But  was  Maggie  really 
engaged  ?  Might  there  not  be  some  mistake  ?  He  hoped 
so  at  least,  and  alternating  between  hope  and  fear,  he 
waited  impatiently  the  return  of  Maggie,  who,  with  each 
thought  of  losing  her,  seemed  tenfold  dearer  to  him  than 
she  had  ever  been  before  ;  and  when  at  last  she  came  bound 
ing  in,  he  could  scarcely  refrain  from  folding  her  in  his  arms, 
and  asking  of  her  to  think  again  ere  she  gave  another  than 
himself  the  right  of  calling  her  his  bride.  But  she  is  not 
mine,  he  thought,  and  so  he  merely  took  her  cold  hands 
within  his  own,  rubbing  them  until  they  were  warm.  Then 
seating  himself  by  her  side  upon  the  sofa,  he  spoke  of  her 
ride,  asking  casually  if  she  called  at  the  pbst  office. 

"  No,  we  did  not  drive  that  way,"  she  answered  readily, 
adding  that  the  post  office  had  few  attractions  for  her  now, 
as  no  one  wrote  to  her  save  Theo. 

She  evidently  spoke  the  truth,  and  with  a  feeling  of  relief 
Mr.  Carrollton  thought  that  possibly  Miss  Jeffrey  might 
have  been  mistaken  ;  but  he  would  know  at  all  hazards, 
even  though  he  ran  the  risk  of  being  thought  extremely 
rude.  Accordingly  that  evening,  after  Mrs.  Jeffrey  -and 
Anna  had  retired  to  their  room,  and  while  Madam  Conway 
was  giving  some  household  directions  in  the  kitchen,  he 
asked  hei  to  come  and  sit  by  him  as  he  lay  upon  the  sofa, 
himself  placing  her  chair  where  the  lamp  light  would  fall 
fully  upon  her  face  and  reveal  its  every  expression.  Closing 


PERPLEXITY.  888 

the  piano,  she  complied  with  his  request,  and  then  awaited 
in  silence  for  what  he  was  to  say. 

"Maggie,"  he  began,  "you  may  think  me  bold,  but  there 
is  something  I  very  much  wish  to  know,  and  which  you,  if 
you  choose,  can  tell  me.  From  what  I  have  heard,  I  am 
led  to  think  you  are  engaged.  Will  you  tell  me  if  this  is 
true  ?" 

The  bright  color  faded  out  from  Maggie's  cheek,  while 
her  eyes  grew  darker  than  before,  and  still  she  did  not 
speak.  Not  that  she  was  angry  with  him  for  asking  her 
that  question  ;  but  because  the  answer,  which,  if  made  at 
all,  must  be  yes,  was  hard  to  utter.  And  yet  why  should 
she  hesitate  to  tell  him  the  truth  at  once  ? 

Alas,  for  thee,  Maggie  Miller  !  The  fancied  love  yon  feel 
tor  Henry  Warner  is  fading  fast  away.  Arthur  Carrollton 
is  a  dangerous  rival,  and  even  now,  you  cannot  meet  the 
glance  of  his  expressive  eyes  without  a  blush  !  Your  bet 
ter  judgment  acknowledged  his  superiority  to  Henry  long 
ago,  and  now  in  your  heart  there  is  room  for  none  save 
him. 

"  Maggie,"  he  said,  again  stretching  out  his  hand  to  take 
the  unresisting  one  which  lay  upon  her  lap,  "  you  need  not 
make  me  other  answer  save  that  so  plainly  written  on  your 
face.  You  are  engaged,  and  may  heaven's  blessing  attend 
both  you  and  yours.'' 

At  this  moment  Madam  Conway  appeared,  and  fearing 
her  inability  to  control  her  feelings  longer,  Maggie  precipi 
tately  left  the  room.  Going  to  her  chamber,  she  burst  into 
^  passionate  fit  of  weeping,  one  moment  blaming  Mr.  Car 
rollton  for  having  learned  her  secret,  and  the  next  chiding 
herself  for  wishing  to  withhold  from  him  a  knowledge  of  her 
engagement. 

"  It  is  not  that  I  love  Henry  less,  I  am  sure,"  she  thought, 


584  MAGGIE    MILLER. 

and  laying  her  head  upon  her  pillow,  she  recalled  everything 
which  had  passed  between  herself  and  her  affianced  hus 
band,  trying  to  bring  back  the  olden  happiness  with  which 
she  had  listened  to  his  words  of  love.  But  it  would  not 
come  ;  there  was  a  barrier  in  the  way,  Arthur  Carrollton  as 
he  looked  when  he  said  so  sadly,  "  You  need  not  tell  me, 
Maggie." 

"  Oh,  I  wish  he  had  not  asked  me  that  question,"  she 
sighed.  "  It  has  put  such  dreadful  thoughts  into  my  head. 
And  yet  I  love  Henry  as  well  as  ever  ;  I  know  I  do,  I  am 
sure  of  it,  or  if  I  do  not,  7  will,"  and  repeating  to  herself 
again  and  again  the  words,  "  I  will,  I  will,"  she  fell 
asleep 

Will,  however,  is  not  always  subservient  to  one's  wishes, 
and  during  the  first  few  days  succeeding  the  incident  of  that 
night,  Maggie  often  found  herself  wishing  Arthur  Carrollton 
had  never  come  to  Hillsdale,  he  made  her  so  wretched,  so 
unhappy.  Insensibly,  too,  she  became  a  very  little  unamia- 
ble,  speaking  pettishly  to  her  grandmother,  disrespectfully 
to  Mrs  Jeffrey,  haughtily  to  Anna,  and  rarely  to  Mr.  Car 
rollton,  who,  after  the  lapse  of  two  or  three  weeks,  began 
to  talk  of  returning  home  in  the  same  vessel  with  Anna 
Jeffrey,  at  which  time  his  health  would  be  fully  restored. 
Then,  indeed,  did  Maggie  awake  to  the  reality  that  while 
her  hand  was  plighted  to  one,  she  loved  another — not  as 
in  days  gone  by  she  had  loved  Henry  Warner,  but  with  a 
deeper,  more  absorbing  love.  With  this  knowledge,  too, 
there  came  the  thought  that  Arthur  Carrollton  had  once 
loved  her,  and  but  for  the  engagement  now  so  much  regret 
ted,  he  would  ere  this  have  told  her  so.  But  it  was  too  late, 
too  lale.  He  would  never  feel  toward  her  again  as  he  onco 
had  felt,  and  bitter  tears  she  shed  as  she  contemplated  the 
fast  coming  future,  when  Arthur  Carrollton  would  be  gone, 


•  PERPLEXITY.  S8B 

3r  shudderingly  thought  of  the  time  when  Henry  Warner 
would  return  to  claim  her  promise. 

"  I  cannot,  cannot  marry  him,"  she  cried,  "  until  I've  torn 
that  other  image  from  my  heart,"  and  then  for  many  days 
ehe  strove  to  recall  the  olden  love  in  vain  ;  for,  planted  on 
the  sandy  soil  of  childhood,  as  it  were,  it  had  been  out 
grown,  and  would  never  again  spring  into  life.  "  I  will 
write  to  him  exactly  how  it  is,"  she  said  at  la.st;  "  will  tell  him 
that  the  affection  I  felt  for  him,  could  not  have  been  what 
a  wife  should  feel  for  her  husband.  I  was  young,  had  seen 
nothing  of  the  world,  knew  nothing  of  gentlemen's  society, 
and  when  he  came  with  his  handsome  face,  and  winning 
ways,  my  interest  was  awakened.  Sympathy,  too,  for  his 
misfortune,  increased  that  interest,  which  grandma's  opposi 
tion  tended  in  no  wise  to  diminish.  But  it  has  died  out, 
that  fancied  love,  and  I  cannot  bring  it  back.  Still,  if  he 
insists,  I  will  keep  my  word,  and  when  he  comes  next 
autumn,  I  will  not  tell  him,  No." 

Maggie  was  very  calm  when  this  decision  was  reached, 
and  opening  her  writing  desk  she  wrote  just  a* she  said  she 
would,  begging  of  him  to  forgive  her  if  she  had  done  him 
wrong,  and  beseeching  Rose  to  comfort  him  as  only  a  sister 
like  her  could  do.  "  And  remember,"  she  wrote  at  the  close, 
"  remember  that  sooner  than  see  you  very  unhappy,  I  will 
marry  you,  will  try  to  be  a  faithful  wife  ;  though,  Henry,  1 
would  rather  not — oh,  so  much  rather  not." 

The  letter  was  finished,  and  then  Maggie  took  it  to  her 
grandmother,  who  read  it  eagerly,  for  in  it  she  saw  a  fulfill 
ment  of  her  wishes.  Very  closely  had  she  watched  both 
Mr.  (-arrollton  and  Maggie,  readily  divining  the  truth,  that 
something  was  wrong  between  them.  But  from  past  expe 
rience,  she  deemed  it  wiser  not  to  interfere  directly.  Mr. 
Carrollton's  avowed  uitcntion  of  returning  to  England,  how 

11 


38fl  MAGGIE    MILLER.  *. 

«ver,  startled  her,  and  she  was  revolving  some  method  of 
procedure  when  Margaret  brought  to  her  the  letter. 

"I  am  happier  than  I  can  well  express,"  she  said,  when 
she  had  finished  reading  it.  "  Oh  course  you  have  my  per 
mission  to  send  it.  But  what  has  changed  you,  Maggie  ? 
Has  another  taken  the  place  of  Henry  Warner  ?" 

"  Don't  ask  me,  grandma,"  cried  Mag,  covering  her  face 
with  her  hands,  "  don't  ask  me,  for  indeed  I  cau  only  tell 
you  that  I  am  very  unhappy." 

A  little  skillful  questioning  on  Madam  Conway's  part; 
sufficed  to  explain  the  whole — how  constant  association  with 
Arthur  Carrollton  had  won  for  him  a  place  in  Maggie's 
•  heart,  which  Henry  Warner  had  never  filled  ;  how  the 
knowledge  that  she  loved  him  as  she  could  love  no  other 
one  had  faintly  revealed  itself  to  her,  on  the  night  when  he 
asked  if  she  were  engaged,  and  had  burst  upon  her  with 
overwhelming  power,  when  she  heard  that  he  was  going 
home. 

"  He  will  never  think  of  me  again,  I  know,"  she  said  ; 
"but,  with  my  present  feelings,  I  cannot  marry  Henry, 
anless  he  insists  upon  it." 

"  Men  seldom  wish  to  marry  a  woman  who  says  she  doe3 
not  love  them,  and  Henry  Warner  will  not  prove  an  excep 
tion,"  answered  Madam  Conway  ;  and,  comforted  with  thig 
assurance,  Mag  folded  up  her  letter,  which  was  soon  on  its 
way  to  Cuba. 

The  next  evening,  as  Madam  Conway  sat  alone  witli  Mr. 
Carrollton,  she  spoke  of  his  return  to  England,  expressing 
her  sorrow,  and  a-sking  why  he  did  not  remain  with  them 
longer. 

"  I  will  deal  frankly  with  you,  Madam,"  said  he,  '•  and 
say  that  if  I  followed  my  own  inclination  I  should  stay,  for 
Hillsdale  holds  for  me  an  attraction  which  no  other  spot 


PERPLEXITY.  187 

possesses.  I  refer  to  your  grand-daughter,  who,  in  the  little 
time  I  have  known  her,  has  grown  very  dear  to  me  ;  so 
dear,  that  I  dare  not  stay  longer  where  she  is,  lest  I  should 
love  her  too  well,  and  rebel  against  yielding  her  to 
another." 

For  a  moment,  Madam  Couway  hesitated;  but  thinking 
the  case  demanded  her  speaking,  she  said,  "  Possibly,  Mr. 
Carrollton,  I  can  make  an  explanation  which  will  show 
some  points  in  a  different  light  from  that  in  which  you  no\f 
see  them.  Margaret  is  engaged  to  Henry  Warner,  I  will 
admit ;  but  the  engagement  has  become  irksome,  and  yes 
terday  she  wrote,  asking  a  release,  which  he  will  grant,  of 
course." 

Instantly,  the  expression  of  Mr.  Carrollton's  face  waa 
changed,  and  very  intently  he  listened,  while  Madam  Con- 
way  frankly  told  him  the  story  of  Margaret's  engagement 
up  to  the  present  time,  withholding  from  him  nothing,  not 
even  Mag's  confession  of  the  interest  she  felt  in  him,  an  in 
terest  which  had  weakened  her  girlish  attachment  for  Henry 
Warner. 

"  You  have  made  me  very  happy,"  Mr.  Carrollton  said  to 
Madam  Conway,  as,  at  a  late  hour,  he  bade  her  good  night, 
"  happier  than  I  can  well  express  ;  for,  without  Margaret, 
life  to  me  would  be  dreary,  indeed." 

The  next  morning,  at  the  breakfast  table,  Anna  Jeffrey, 
who  was  in  high  spirits  with  the  prospect  of  having  Mr. 
Carrollton  for  a  fellow-traveller,  spoke  of  their  intended 
voyage,  saying  she  could  hardly  wait  for  the  time  to  come, 
and  asking  if  he  were  not  equally  impatient  to  leave  so  hor 
rid  a  country  as  America. 

"  On  the  contrary,"  he  replied,  "  I  should  be  sorry  tc 
leave  America  just  yet.  I  have,  therefore,  decided  tc 
remain  a  little  longer,"  and  his  eyes  sought  the  face  of  Mug 


888  MAGGIE    MILLER. 

who,  in  her  joyful  surprise,  dropped  the  knife  with  which 
she  was  helping  herself  to  butter  ;  while  Anna  Jcffrej,  quilts 
as  much  astonished,  upset  her  coffee,  exclaiming,  "  j\ri-t 
going  home !  What  has  changed  your  mind  ?" 

Mr.  Carrollton  made  her  no  direct  reply,  aud  she  con 
tinued  her  breakfast  in  no  very  amiable  mood  ;  while  Mag 
gie,  too  much  overjoyed  to  eat,  managed,  ere  long,  to  find 
an  excuse  for  leaving  the  table.  Mr.  Carrollton  wished  to 
do  everything  honorably,  and  so  he  decided  to  say  nothing 
to  Mag  of  the  cause  of  this  sudden  change  in  his  plan,  until 
Henry  Warner's  answer  was  received,  as  she  would  then 
feel  freer  to  act  as  she  felt.  His  resolution,  however,  was 
more  easily  made  than  kept,  and  during  the  succeeding 
weeks,  by  actions,  if  not  by  words,  he  more  than  once  told 
Maggie  Miller  how  much  she  was  beloved  ;  and  Maggie, 
trembling  with  fear  lest  the  cup  of  happiness  just  within  her 
grasp  should  be  rudely  dashed  aside,  waited  impatiently  for 
the  letter  which  was  to  set  her  free.  But  weeks  went  by, 
and  Maggie's  heart  grew  sick  with  hope  deferred,  for  there 
came  to  her  no  message  from  the  distant  Cuban  shore 
where,  in  another  chapter,  we  will  for  a  moment  go. 


BROTHER  AND  SISTER.  Set? 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

BROTHER     AND      SISTER. 

BRIGHTLY  shone  the  moonlight  on  the  sunny  isle  of  Cuba, 
dancing  lightly  on  the  wave,  resting  softly  on  the  orange 
groves,  and  stealing  gently  through  the  casement,  into  the 
room  where  a  young  girl  lay,  whiter  far  than  the  flowera 
strewn  upon  her  pillow.  From  the  commencement  of  the 
voyage,  Rose  had  drooped,  growing  weaker  every  day,  until 
at  last  all  who  looked  upon  her,  felt  that  the  home,  of  which 
she  talked  so  much,  would  never  again  be  gladdened  by  her 
presence.  Very  tenderly,  Henry  Warner  nursed  her,  bear 
ing  her  often  in  his  arms  upon  the  vessel's  deck,  where  she 
could  breathe  the  fresh  morning  air  as  it  came  rippling  o'er 
the  sea.  But  neither  ocean  breeze,  nor  yet  the  fragrant 
breath  of  Florida's  aromatic  bowers,  where  for  a  time  they 
stopped,  had  power  to  rouse  her  ;  and  when  at  last  Havana 
was  reached,  she  laid  her  weary  head  upon  her  pillow,  whis 
pering  to  no  one  of  the  love  whieh  was  wearing  her  life 
away.  With  untold  anguish  at  their  hearts,  both  her  aunt 
and  Henry  watched  her,  the  latter  shrinking  ever  from  the 
thoughts  of  losing  one  who  seemed  a  part  of  his  very  life. 

"  I  cannot  give  you  up,  my  Rose.  I  cannot  live  without 
you,"  he  said,  when  once  she  talked  to  him  of  death.  "  You 
are  all  the  world  to  me,"  and  laying  his  head  upon  her  pil 
low,  he  wept  as  men  will  sometimes  weep  over  their  firrf 
great  sorrow. 


890  MAGGIE    MILLER. 

"  Don't,  Henry,"  she  said,  laying  her  tiny  hand  upon  hi? 
hair  "  Maggie  will  comfort  you  when  I  am  gone  She 
will  talk  to  you  of  me,  standing  at  my  grave,  for,  Henry, 
you  must  not  leave  me  here  alone.  You  must  carry  me 
home  and  bury  me  in  dear  old  Leominster,  where  my  child 
hood  was  passed,  and  where  I  learned  to  love  you  so  much  ; 
oh,  so  much  1" 

There  was  a  mournful  pathos  in  the  tone  with  which  the 
last  words  were  uttered,  but  Henry  Warner  did  not  under 
Btand  it,  and  covering  the  little  blue  veined  hand  with 
kisses,  he  promised  that  her  grave  should  be  made  at  the 
foot  of  the  garden  in  their  far  off  home,  where  the  sunset- 
light  fell  softly,  and  the  moonbeams  gently  shone.  That 
evening,  Henry  sat  alone  by  Rose,  who  had  fallen  into  a 
disturbed  slumber.  For  a  time  he  took  no  notice  of  the  dis 
connected  words  she  uttered  in  her  dreams,  but  when,  at 
last,  he  heard  the  sound  of  his  own  name,  he  drew  near, 
and  bending  low,  listened  with  mingled  emotions  of  joy, 
sorrow  a,nd  surprise  to  a  secret  which,  waking,  she  would 
never  have  told  to  him,  above  all  others.  She  loved  him — 
the  fair  girl  he  called  his  sister — but  not  as  a  sister  loves, 
and  now,  as  he  stood  by  her,  with  the  knowledge  thrilling 
every  nerve,  he  remembered  many  by-gone  scenes,  where, 
but  for  his  blindness,  he  would  have  seen  how  every  pulsa 
tion  of  her  heart  throbbed  alone  for  him,  whose  hand  was 
plighted  to  another,  and  that  other  no  unworthy  rival. 
Beautiful,  very  beautiful,  was  the  shadowy  form  which,  at 
that  moment,  seemed  standing  at  his  side,  and  his  heari 
went  out  towards  her  as  the  one  above  all  others  to  be  his 
bride. 

"  Had  I  known  it  sooner,"  he  thought,  "  known  it  before 
]  met  the  peerless  Mag,  I  might  have  taken  Rose  to  my 
bosom  and  loved  her,  it  may  be,  with  a  deeper  love  than 


BROTHER  AND  SISTER.  3» 

that  I  feel  for  Maggie  Miller,  for  Rose  is  everything  to  me 
She  has  made  and  keeps  me  what  I  am,  and  how  can  I  let 
her  die,  when  I  have  the  power  to  save  her  ?" 

There  was  a  movement  upon  the  pillow.  Rose  was 
waking,  and  as  her  soft  blue  eyes  unclosed  and  looked  up  in 
his  face,  he  wound  his  arms  around  her,  kissing  her  lips,  as 
never  before  he  had  kissed  her.  She  was  not  his  sister 
now — the  veil  was  torn  away — a  new  "feeling  had  been 
awakened,  and  as  days  and  weeks  went  by  there  gradually 
crept  in  between  him  and  Maggie  Miller  a  new  love — even  a 
love  for  the  fair-haired  Rose,  to  whom  he  was  kinder,  if 
possible,  than  he  had  been  before,  though  he  seldom  kissed 
her  lips,  or  caressed  her  in  any  way. 

"It  would  be  wrong,"  he  said,  "a  wrong  to  himself — a 
wrong  to  her — and  a  wrong  to  Maggie  Miller,  to  whom  hia 
troth  was  plighted,"  and  he  did  not  wish  it  otherwise,  he 
thought  ;  though  insensibly  there  came  over  him  a  wish  that 
Maggie  herself  might  weary  of  the  engagement,  and  seek 
to  break  it.  "  Not  that  he  loved  her  the  less,"  he  reasoned, 
"but  that  he  pitied  Rose  the  more." 

In  this  manner  time  passed  on,  until  at  last  there  came  to 
him  Maggie's  letter  which  had  been  a  long  time  on  the  sea. 

"  I  expected  it,"  he  thought,  as  he  finished  reading  it, 
And  though  conscious  for  a  moment  of  a  feeling  of  disap 
pointment,  the  letter  brought  him  far  more  pleasure  than 
pain. 

Of  Arthur  Carrollton  no  mention  had  been  made,  but  he 
readily  guessed  the  truth;  and  thinking  "it  is  well,"  he  laid 
the  letter  aside  and  went  back  to  Rose,  deciding  to  say 
nothing  to  her  then.  He  would  wait  until  his  own  feelings 
were  more  perfectly  defined.  So  a  week  went  by,  and  again, 
as  he  had  often  done  before,  he  sat  with  her  alone  in  the  stilly 
night,  watched  her  as  she  slept,  and  thinking  how  beaut  ifu1 


392  MAGGIE    MILLER. 

she  was,  with  her  golden  Uair  shading  her  childish  face,  her 
long  eyelashes  resting  on  her  cheek,  and  her  little  hands 
folded  meekly  upon  her  bosom. 

"She  is  too  beautiful  to  die,"  he  murmured,  pressing  a 
kiss  upon  her  lips. 

This  act  awoke  her,  and  turning  towards  him  she  said, 
"  Was  I  dreaming,  Henry,  or  did  you  kiss  ine  as  you  used 
to  do  ?" 

"  Not  dreaming,  Rose,"  he  answered — then  rather  hur 
riedly  he  added,  "  I  have  a  letter  from  Maggie  Miller,  and 
ere  I  answer  it,  I  would  read  it  to  you.  Can  you  hear  it 
now  ?" 

"  Yes,  yes,"  she  whispered  faintly,  "  read  it  to  me, 
Heury;"  and  turning  her  face  away,  she  listened,  while  he 
read  that  Maggie  Miller,  grown  weary  of  her  troth,  asked  a 
release  from  her  engagement. 

He  finished  reading,  and  then  waited  in  silence  to  hear 
what  Rose  would  say.  But  for  a  time  she  did  not  speak. 
All  hope  for  herself  had  long  since  died  away,  and  now  sho 
experienced  only  sorrow  for  Henry's  disappointment. 

"  My  poor  brother,"  she  said  at  last,  turning  her  face  to 
wards  him  and  taking  his  hand  in  hers  ;  "  I  am  sorry 
for  you — to  lose  us  both,  Maggie  and  me.  What  will  you 
do?" 

"  Rose,"  he  said,  bending  so  low  that  his  brown  locka 
mingled  with  the  yellow  tresses  of  her  hair,  "  Rose,  I  do 
not  regret  Maggie  Miller's  decision,  neither  do  I  blame  her 
for  it.  She  is  a  noble,  true-hearted  girl,  and  so  long  as  I 
live  I  shall  esteem  her  highly  ;  but  I.  too,  have  changed — 
have  learned  to  love  another.  Will  yon  sanction  this  new 
love,  dear  Rose  ?  Will  you  say  that  it  is  right  ?" 

The  white  lids  closed  wearily  over  the  eyes  of  blue,  but 
they  could  not  keep  back  the  tears  which  rolled 


BROTHER   AND  SISTER.  8»l 

her  face,  as  she  answered  somewhat  sadly,  "  Who  is  it, 
Henry  ?" 

There  was  another  moment  of  silence,  and  then  he 
whispered  in  her  ear,  "  People  call  her  Rose  ;  /once  called 
her  sister ;  but  my  heart  now  claims  her  for  something 
nearer.  My  Rose,"  he  continued,  "  shall  it  be  ?  Will  you 
live  for  my  sake  ?  Will  you  be  my  wife  ?" 

The  shock  was  too  sudden — too  great,  and  neither  on  that 
night,  nor  yet  the  succeeding  day,  had  Rose  the  power  to 
answer.  But  as  the  dew  of  heaven  is  to  the  parched  and 
dying  flower,  so  were  these  words  of  love  to  her,  imparting 
at  once  new  life  and  strength,  making  her  as  it  were  another 
creature.  The  question  asked  that  night  so  unexpectedly, 
was  answered  at  last ;  and  then  with  almost  perfect  happi 
ness  at  her  heart,  she,  too,  added  a  few  lines  to  the  letter 
which  Henry  sent  to  Maggie  Miller,  over  whose  pathway, 
hitherto  so  bright,  a  fearful  shadow  was  falling. 


MAGGIE    MILLER. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

THE    PEDDLER. 

IT  was  a  rainy  April  day — a  day  which  precluded  all  out 
door  exercise,  and  Hagar  Warren,  from  the  window  of  her 
lonely  cabin,  watched  in  vain  for  the  coming  of  Maggie 
Miller.  It  was  now  more  than  a  week  since  she  had  been 
there,  for  both  Arthur  Carrollton  and  herself  had  accom 
panied  the  disappointed  Anna  Jeffrey  to  New  York,  going 
with  her  on  board  the  vessel  which  was  to  take  her  from  a 
country  she  so  affected  to  dislike. 

"  I  dare  say  you'll  be  Maggie  somebody  else  ere  I  meet  you 
again,"  she  said  to  Maggie,  at  parting,  and  Mr.  Carrollton, 
on  her  journey  home,  found  it  hard  to  keep  from  asking  her 
if  for  the  "  somebody  else,"  she  would  substitute  his  name 
and  so  be  "  Maggie  Carrollton." 

This,  however,  he  did  not  do  ;  but  his  attentions  were  so 
marked,  and  his  manner  toward  her  so  affectionate,  that 
ere  Ilillsdale  was  reached,  there  was  in  Maggie's  mind  no 
longer  a  doubt  as  to  the  nature  of  his  feelings  toward  her. 
Arrived  at  home,  he  kept  her  constantly  at  his  side,  while 
Hagar,  who  was  suffering  from  a  slight  attack  of  rheumatism, 
and  could  not  go  up  to  the  stone  house,  waited  and  watched, 
thinking  herself  almost  willing  to  be  teased  for  the  secret,  if 
she  could  once  more  hear  the  sound  of  Maggie's  voice.  The 
secret,  however,  had  been  forgotten  in  the  exciting  scenes, 


THE   PEDDLER.  396 

Jh  rough  which  Maggie  had  passed  since  first  she  learned  of 
its  exisreuce  ;  and  it  was  now  a  long,  long  time  since  she 
had  mentioned  it  to  Hagar,  who  each  day  grew  more  and 
more  determined  never  to  reveal  it. 

"  My  life  is  almost  ended,"  she  thought,  "  and  the  secret 
shall  go  with  me  to  my  grave.  Margaret  will  be  happier 
without  it,  and  it  shall  not  be  revealed." 

Thus  she  reasoned  on  that  rainy  afternoon,  when  she  sal 
waiting  for  Maggie,  who,  she  heard,  had  returned  the  day 
before.  Slowly  the  hours  dragged  on,  and  the  night 
shadows  fell  at  last  upon  the  forest  trees,  creeping  into  the 
corners  of  Hagar's  room,  resting  upon  the  hearth -stone 
falling  upon  the  window  pane,  creeping  up  the  wall,  a;id 
affecting  Hagar  with  a  nameless  fear  of  some  impending 
evil.  This  fear  not  even  the  flickering  flame  of  the  lamp, 
which  she  lighted  at  last,  and  placed  upon  the  mantel,  was 
able  to  dispel,  for  the  shadows  grew  darker,  folding  them 
selves  around  her  heart,  until  she  covered  her  eyes  with  her 
hands,  lest  some  goblin  shape  should  spring  into  life  before 
her. 

The  sound  of  the  gate  latch  was  heard,  and  footsteps 
were  approaching  the  door  ;  not  the  bounding  step  of  Maggie, 
but  a  tramping  tread,  followed  by  a  heavy  knock,  and  the 
next  moment  a  tall,  large  man  appeared  before  her,  asking 
shelter  for  the  night.  The  pack  he  carried  showed  him  at 
once  to  be  a  peddler,  and  upon  a  nearer  view,  Hagar  recog 
nized  in  him  a  stranger  who,  years  before,  had  craved  her 
hospitality.  He  had  been  civil  to  her  then  ;  she  did  not 
fear  him  now,  and  she  consented  to  his  remaining,  thinking 
his  presence  there  might  dispel  the  mysterious  terror  hang 
ing  around  her.  But  few  words  passed  between  them  that 
night,  for  Martin,  as  he  called  himself,  was  tired,  and  after 
partaking  of  the  supper  she  prepared,  he  retired  to  rest  The 


896  MAGGIE    MILLER. 

next  morning,  however,  he  was  more  talkative,  kindly  en 
lightening  her  with  regard  to  his  business,  his  family  arid 
his  place  of  residence,  which  last  he  said  was  in  Meriden, 
Connecticut. 

It  was  a  long  time  since  Hagar  had  heard  that  name,  and 
now,  turning  quickly  towards  him,  she  said,  "  Meriden  1 
That  is  where  my  Hester  lived,  and  where  her  husband  died.'' 

"  I  want  to  know,"  returned  the  Yankee  peddler.  "  What 
might  have  been  his  name  ?" 

"Hamilton,  Nathan  Hamilton.  Did  you  know  him? 
He  died  nineteen  years  ago,  this  coming  summer." 

"  Egzadly  /"  ejaculated  the  peddler,  setting  down  his  pack, 
and  himself  taking  a  chair,  preparatory  to  a  long  talk 
"  Egzactly  ;  I  knowed  him  like  a  book.  Old  Squire  Ham- 
pletou,  the  biggest  man  in  Meriden,  and  you  don't  say  his 
last  wife,  that  tall,  handsome  gal,  was  your  darter  ?" 

"  Yes,  she  was  my  daughter,"  answered  Ilagar,  her  whole 
face  glowing  with  the  interest  she  felt,  in  talking  for  the 
first  time  in  her  life  with  one  who  had  known  her  daughter's 
husband,  Maggie's  father.  "  You  knew  her.  You  have 
seen  her?"  she  continued;  and  Martin  answered,  "  Seen  her 
a  hundred  times,  I'll  bet.  Any  how,  I  sold  her  the  weddiu' 
gown,  and  now  I  think  ou't,  she  favored  you.  She  was  a 
likely  person,  and  I  allus  thought  that  proud  sister  of  his'n, 
the  widder  Warner,  might  have  been  in  better  business  than 
takin'  them  children  away  as  she  did,  because  he  married 
his  hired  gal.  But  it's  as  well  for  them,  I  s'pose,  particu. 
larly  for  the  boy,  who  is  one  of  the  fust  young  men  in 
Wooster,  now.  Keeps  a  big  store  I" 

"  Warner,  Warner  !"  interrupted  old  Hagar,  the  nameless 
terror  of  the  night  before  creeping  again  into  her  heart. 
"  Whose  name  did  you  say  was  Warner  ?" 

"  The  hull  on  'em,  boy,  girl  and  all,  is  called  Warner 


THE  PEDDLER.  8t»? 

now — one  Rose,  and  t'other  Henry,"  answered  the  peddler; 
perfectly  delighted  with  the  interest  manifested  by  his  audi 
tor,  who,  grasping  at  the  bedpost  and  moving  her  hand  rap 
idly  before  her  eyes,  as  if  to  clear  away  a  mist  which  had 
settled  there,  continued,  "  I  remember  now  Hester  told  me 
of  the  children  ;  but  one,  she  said,  was  a  step-child,  that 
was  the  boy,  wasn't  it  ?"  and  her  wild,  black  eyes  had  in 
them  a  look  of  unutterable  anxiety,  wholly  incomprehensi 
ble  to  the  peddler,  who,  instead  of  answering  her  question 
said,  "  What  ails  you  woman  ?  Your  face  is  as  white  as  a 
piece  of  paper  ?" 

"  Thinking  of  Hester  always  affects  me  so,"  she  answered; 
and  stretching  her  hands  beseechingly  towards  him,  she 
entreated  him  to  say  if  Henry  were  not  the  step-child. 

"  No  marm,  he  warn't"  answered  the  peddler,  who,  like  a 
great  many  talkative  people,  pretended  to  know  more  than 
he  really  did,  and  who  in  this  particular  instance,  was  cer 
tainly  mistaken.  "  I  can  tell  you  egzactly  how  that  is  ; 
Henry  was  the  son  of  Mr.  Hampleton's  first  marriage,  Henry 
Hampldon.  The  second  wife,  the  one  your  darter  lived 
with,  was  the  widder  Warner,  and  had  a  little  gal,  Rose, 
when  she  married  Mr.  Hampletou.  This  widder  Warner's 
husband's  brother  married  Mr.  Hampleton's  sister,  the 
woman  who  took  the  children,  and  had  Henry  change  his 
name  to  Warner.  The  Hampletons  and  Warners  were 
mighty  big  feelin'  folks,  and  the  old  Squire's  match  morti 
fied  'em  dreadfully." 

"  Where  are  they  now  ?"  gasped  Hagar,  hoping  there 
might  be  some  mistake. 

"  There  you've  got  me  !"  answered  Martin.  "  I  haven'i 
seen  'em  this  dozen  year  ;  but  the  last  I  heard,  Miss  War 
ner  and  Rose  was  livin'  in  Leominster,  and  Henry  was  in  a  big 
store  in  Wooster  But  what  the  plague  is  the  matter  ?"  he 


o»8  MAGGIE    MILLEK 

continued,  alarmed  at  the  expression  of  Hagar's  face,  afi 
well  as  at  the  strangeness  of  her  manner. 

Wringing  her  hands  as  if  she  would  wrench  her  fingers 
from  their  sockets,  she  clutched  at  her  long  white  hair,  and 
rocking  to  and  fro,  moaned  "  woe  is  me,  and  woe  the  day 
when  I  was  born." 

From  every  one  save  her  grandmother,  Margaret  had 
kept  the  knowledge  of  her  changed  feelings  towards  Henry 
Warner  ;  and  looking  upon  a  marriage  between  the  two  as 
an  event  surely  expected,  old  Hagar  was  overwhelmed  with 
grief  and  fear.  Falling  at  last  upon  her  knees,  she  cried, 
"  Had  you  cut  my  throat  from  ear  to  ear,  old  man,  you 
could  not  have  hurt  me  more.  Oh,  that  I  had  died  years  and 
years  ago  !  but  I  must  live  now,  live!"  she  screamed,  spring 
ing  to  her  feet — "  live  to  prevent  the  wrong  my  own  wick 
edness  has  caused." 

Perfectly  astonished  at  what  he  saw  and  heard,  the  ped 
dler  attempted  to  question  her,  but  failing  to  obtain  any  satis 
factory  answers,  he  finally  left,  mentally  pronouncing  her, 
"  as  crazy  as  a  loon."  This  opinion  was  confirmed  by  the 
people  on  whom  he  next  called,  for,  chancing  to  speak  of 
Hagar,  he  was  told  that  nothing  which  she  did  or  said  was 
considered  strange,  as  she  had  been  called  insane  for  years. 
This  satisfied  Martin,  who  made  no  further  mention  of  her, 
and  thus  the  scandal,  which  his  story  might  otherwise  have 
produced,  was  prevented. 

In  the  meantime,  on  her  face  old  Hagar  lay,  moaning  bit 
terly.  "  My  sin  has  found  me  out,  found  me  out  ;  arid  just 
when  I  thought  it  never  need  be  known.  For  myself,  I  do 
not  care  ;  but  Maggie,  Maggie,  how  can  1  tell  her  that  she 
is  bone  of  my  bone,  blood  of  my  blood,  flesh  of  my  flesh — 
and  me,  old  Hagar  Warren  1" 

It  would  be  impossible  to  describe  the  scorn  and  intense 


THE  PEDDLER.  399 

loathing  concentrated  in  the  tones  of  Hagar's  voice  as  she 
uttered  these  last  words,  "  and  me,  old  Hagar  Warren !" 
Had  she  indeed  been  the  veriest  wretch  on  earth,  she  could 
not  have  hated  herself  more  than  she  did  in  that  hour  of  her 
humiliation,  when,  with  a  loud  voice,  she  cried,  "  let  me  die, 
oh,  let  me  die,  and  it  will  never  be  known  1"  Then,  as  she. 
reflected  upon  the  terrible  consequence  which  would  ensue 
were  she  to  die  and  make  no  sign,  she  wrung  her  hands 
despairingly,  crying,  "  Life,  life,  yes,  give  me  life  to  tell  her 
of  my  guilt ;  and  then  it  will  be  a  blessed  rest  to  die.  Oh, 
Margaret,  my  precious  child,  I'd  give  ray  heart's  blood,  drop 
by  drop,  to  save  you  ;  but  it  can't  be  ;  you  must  not  wed 
your  father's  son  ;  oh,  Maggie,  Maggie,  Maggie!" 

Fainter  and  fainter  grew  each  succeeding  word,  and 
when  the  last  was  spoken,  she  fell  again  upon  her  face, 
unconscious  and  forgetful  of  her  woe.  Higher  and  higher 
in  the  heavens  rose  the  morning  sun,  stealing  across  the  win 
dow-sill,  and  shining  aslant  the  floor,  where  Hagar  still  lay 
in  a  deep,  deathlike  swoon.  An  hour  passed  on,  and  then 
the  wretched  woman  came  slowly  back  to  life,  her  eyes 
lighting  up  with  joy,  as  she  whispered,  "  it  was  a  dream, 
thank  heaven,  'twas  a  dream  ;"  and  then  growing  dim  with 
tears,  as  the  dread  reality  came  over  her.  The  first  fearful 
burst  of  grief  was  passed,  for  Hagar  now  could  weep,  and 
tears  did  her  good,  quelling  the  feverish  agony  at  her  heart. 
Not  for  herself  did  she  suffer  so  much  as  for  Mag,  trembling 
for  the  effect  the  telling  of  the  secret  would  have  on  her. 
For  it  must  be  told.  She  knew  that  full  well,  and  as  the 
win  fast  neared  the  western  horizon,  she  murmured,  "  Oh, 
will  she  come  to-night,  will  she  come  to-night  ?" 

Yes,  Hagar,  she  will.  Even  now  her  feet,  which,  when 
•>hey  backward  turn,  will  tread  less  joyously,  are  threading 


400  MAGGIE     MILLER. 

the  woodland  path.  The  half-way  rock  is  reached — neaief 
and  nearer  she  comes — her  shadow  falls  across  the  floor — - 
her  hand  is  on  your  arm — her  voice  is  in  your  ear — Maggia 
Miller  is  at  your  side — Heaven  help  you  both  1 


THE  TELLING  OF  THE  SECRET.  «fit 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

THE  TELLING  OF  THE  SECRET. 

"  Hagar  1  Hagar  I"  exclaimed  Mag,  playfully  bounding 
wO  her  side,  and  laying  her  hand  upon  her  arm  ;  "  What  ail- 
*th  thee,  Hagar  ?" 

The  words  were  mete,  for  never  Hagar  in  the  desert, 
thirsting  for  the  gushing  fountain,  suffered  more  than  did 
she  who  sat  with  covered  face  and  made  no  word  of  answer. 
Maggie  was  unusually  happy  that  day,  for  but  a  few  hours 
before  she  had  received  Henry's  letter,  making  her  free — • 
free  to  love  Arthur  Carrollton,  who  she  well  knew  only 
waited  a  favorable  opportunity  to  tell  her  his  love  ;  so 
with  a  heart  full  of  happiness  she  had  stolen  away  to  visit 
Hagar,  reproaching  herself  as  she  came  for  having  neglected 
her  so  long.  "  But  I'll  make  amends,  by  telling  her  what 
I'm  sure  she  must  have  guessed,"  she  thought,  as  she  en 
tered  the  cottage,  where,  to  her  surprise,  she  found  her 
weeping.  Thinking  the  old  woman's  distress  might  possibly 
be  occasioned  by  her  neglect,  she  spoke  again — "  Are  you 
crying  for  me,  Hagar  ?" 

"  Yes,  Maggie  Miller,  for  you — for  you  /"  answered  Hagar, 
lifting  up  a  face  so  ghastly  white,  that  Maggie  started  back 
in  some  alarm. 

"  Poor  Hagar,  you  are  ill,"  she  said,  and  advancing  nearer 
she  wound  her  arms  around  the  trembling  form,  and  pillow* 


•Ml  MAGGIE    MILLER. 

ing  the  snowy  head  upon  her  bosom,  continued  soothingly, 
"  I  did  not  mean  to  stay  away  so  long.  I  will  not  do  it 
again,  but  I  am  so  happy,  Hagar,  so  happy  that  I  half  for 
got  myself." 

For  a  moment  Hagar  let  her  head  repose  upon  the  bosom 
cf  her  child,  then  murmuring  softly,  "it  will  never  lie  there 
again,"  she  arose,  and,  confronting  Maggie,  said,  "Is  it  love 
which  makes  you  so  happy  ?" 

"  Yes,  Hagar,  love,"  answered  Margaret,  the  deep  blushes 
stealing  over  her  glowing  face. 

"  And  is  it  your  intention  to  marry  the  man  you  love  ?' 
continued  Hagar,  thinking  only  of  Henry  Warner,  while  Mar 
garet,  thinking  only  of  Arthur  Carrollton,  replied,  "  If  he 
will  marry  me,  I  shall  most  surely  marry  him." 

"  It  is  enough.  I  must  tell  her,"  whispered  Hagar ;  while 
Maggie  asked,  "  Tell  me  what  ?" 

For  a  moment  the  wild  eyes  fastened  themselves  upon  her 
with  a  look  of  yearning  anguish,  and  then  Hagar  answered 
slowly,  "  Tell  you  what  you've  often  wished  to  know — my  se 
cret  .'"  the  last  word  dropping  from  her  lips  more  like  a 
warning  hiss  than  like  a  human  sound.  It  was  long  since 
Mag  had  teased  for  the  secret,  so  absorbed  had  she  been  in 
other  matters,  but  now  that  there  was  a  prospect  of  know 
ing  it,  her  curiosity  was  reawakened,  and  while  her  eyes 
glistened  with  expectation,  she  said,  "Yes,  tell  it  to  me, 
Hagar,  and  then  I'll  tell  you  mine  ;"  and  all  over  her  beauti 
ful  face  there  shone  a  joyous  light  as  she  thought  how  Ha 
gar,  who  had  once  pronounced  Henry  Warner  unworthy, 
would  rejoice  in  her  new  love. 

"  Not  here,  Maggie — not  here  in  this  room  can  I  tell 
you,"  said  old  Hagar  ;  "  but  out  in  the  open  air,  where  my 
breath  will  come  more  freely  ;"  and  leading  the  way,  she 
hobbled  to  the  mossy  bank,  where  Mag  had  sat  with  Ar 


THE   TELLIXG   OF   TOE  SECRET.  408 

thur  CarrolltoL  on  the  morning  of  his  departure  for  Mon 
treal. 

Here  she  sat  down,  while  Maggie  threw  herself  upon  the 
damp  ground  at  her  feet,  her  face  lighted  with  eager  curiosity 
and  her  lustrous  eyes  bright  as  stars  with  the  excitement. 
For  a  moment  Hagar  bent  forward,  and  folding  her  hands 
one  above  the  other,  laid  them  upon  the  head  of  the  young 
girl  as  if  to  gather  strength  for  what  she  was  to  say.  But 
all  in  vain  ;  for  when  she  essayed  to  speak,  her  tongue  clave 
to  the  roof  of  her  mouth,  and  her  lips  gave  forth  unmean 
ing  sounds. 

"It  must  be  something  terrible  to  affect  her  so,"  thought 
Mug,  and  taking  the  bony  hands  between  her  own,  she  said, 
"  I  would  not  tell  it,  Hagar  ;  I  do  not  wish  to  hear." 

The  voice  aroused  the  half-fainting  woman,  and  withdraw 
ing  her  hand  from  Maggie's  grasp,  she  replied,  "  Turn  away 
your  face,  Margaret  Miller,  so  I  cannot  see  the  hatred  set 
tling  over  it,  when  I  tell  you  what  I  must." 

"  Certainly  ;  my  back  if  you  prefer  it,"  answered  Mag, 
half  playfully  ;  and  turning  around,  she  leaned  her  head 
against  the  feeble  knees  of  Hagar. 

"  Maggie,  Maggie"  began  the  poor  old  woman,  lingering 
long  and  lovingly  over  that  dear  name,  "nineteen  years 
ago,  next  December,  I  took  upon  my  soul  the  secret  sin 
which  has  worn  niy  life  away,  but  I  did  it  for  the  love  I  had 
for  you.  Oh,  Margaret,  believe  it,  for  the  love  I  had  for 
you,  more  than  for  my  own  ambition  ;"  and  the  long  fingers 
slid  nervously  over  the  bands  of  shiaing  hair  just  within  her 
reach. 

At  the  touch  of  those  fingers,  Mag  shuddered  involun 
tarily.  There  was  a  vague,  undefined  terror  stealing  over 
her,  and  impatient  to  know  the  worst,  she  said,  "  Go  on,  teU 
me  what  you  did." 


404  MAGGIE    MILLER. 

"  I  can't — I  can't — and  yet  I  must,"  cried  Hagar.  "Yon 
were  a  beautiful  baby,  Mag,  and  the  other  one  was  sickly, 
pinched  and  blue.  I  had  you  both  in  my  room  the  night 
afier  Hester  died  ;  and  the  devil — Maggie,  do  you  know 
how  the  devil  will  creep  into  the  heart,  and  whisper,  u  hisper 
till  the  brain  is  all  on  fire  ?  This  thing  he  did  to  me,  Mag 
gie,  nineteen  years  ago,  he  whispered — whispered  dreadful 
things,  and  his  whisperings  were  of  you." 

"  Horrible  !  Hagar,"  exclaimed  Maggie.  .  "  Leave  the 
devil,  and  tell  me  of  yourself." 

"  That's  it,"  answered  Hagar.  "  If  I  had  but  left  him 
then,  this  hour  would  never  have  come  to  me;  but  I  listened, 
and  when  he  told  me  that  a  handsome,  healthy  child,  would 
be  more  acceptable  to  the  Couways  than  a  weakly,  fretful 
one — when  he  said  that  Hagar  Warren's  grandchild  had 
far  better  be  a  lady  than  a  drudge — that  no  one  would  ever 
know  it,  for  none  had  noticed  either — /  did  it,  Maggie  MiL 
ler  ;  /  took  you  from  the  pine  board  cradle,  where  you  lay — 1 
dressed  you  in  the  other  baby's  dothes — /  laid  you  on  her  pil- 
loiv — /  wrapped  her  in  your  co  irse  white  frock — /  said  that 
she  was  mine,  and  Margaret — <  h  Heaven  I  cant  you  see  it  1 
Don't  you  know  that  I,  the  shrivt'led,  skinny  hag,  who  tells  you 

this,  AM    YOUR    OWN    GRANDMOTHER  !  1" 

There  was  no  need  for  Maggie  Miller  to  answer  that 
appeal.  The  words  had  burned  into  her  soul — scorching 
her  very  life-blood,  and  maddening  her  brain.  It  was  a 
fearful  blow — crushing  her  at  once.  She  saw  it  all,  under- 
Btood  it  all,  and  knew  there  was  no  hope.  The  family  pride, 
at  which  she  had  often  laughed,  was  strong  within  her  amj 
could  not  at  once  be  rooted  out.  All  the  fond  household 
memories,  though  desecrated  and  trampled  down,  were  not 
BO  soon  to  be  forgotten.  She  could  not  own  that  half-crazed 
woman  for  her  grandmother  1  As  Hagar  talked,  she  had 


THE  TELLING    OF   THE   SECRET. 

risen  to  her  feet,  aud  now,  tall  and  erect  as  the  mountain 
ash  which  grew  on  her  native  hills,  she  stood  before  her, 
every  vestige  of  color  faded  from  her  face,  her  eyes  dark  aa 
midnight  and  glowing  like  coals  of  living  fire,  while  her 
hands,  locked  despairingly  together,  moved  slowly  towards 
Hagur,  as  if  to  thrust  her  aside. 

"  Oh,  speak  again,"  she  said,  "  but  not  the  dreadful  words 
you  said  to  me  just  now.  Tell  me  they  are  false — say  that 
my  father  perished  in  the  storm,  that  my  mother  was  she 
who  held  me  on  her  bosom  when  she  died — that  I — oh, 
Hagar,  /  am  not — /  will  not  be  the  creature  you  say  I  am. 
Speak  to  me,"  she  continued,  "  tell  me,  is  it  true  ?"  and  in  her 
voice  there  was  not  the  olden  sound. 

Hoarse — hollow — full  of  reproachful  anguish  it  seemed, 
and  bowing  her  head  in  very  shame,  old  Hagar  made  her 
answer  :  "  Would  to  heaven  'twere  not  true — but  'tis — it 
is  !  Kill  me,  Maggie,"  she  continued,  "  strike  me  dead,  if 
you  will,  but  take  your  eyes  away.  You  must  not  look  thus 
at  me,  a  heart-broken  wretch." 

But  not  of  Hagar  Warren  was  Maggie  thinking  then. 
The  past,  the  present,  aud  the  future  were  all  embodied  in 
her  thoughts.  She  had  been  an  intruder  all  her  life  ;  had 
ruled  with  a  high  hand  people  on  whom  she  had  no  claim,  and 
who,  had  they  known  her  parentage,  would  have  spurned 
her  from  them.  Theo,  whom  she  had  held  in  her  arms  so 
oft,  calling  her  sister  and  loving  her  as  such,  was  hers  no 
longer  ;  nor  yet  the  fond  woman  who  had  cherished  her  so 
tenderly— neither  were  hers  ;  and  in  fancy  she  saw  the  look 
of  scorn  upon  that  woman's  face,  when  she  should  hear  the 
tale,  for  it  must  be  told,  and  she  must  tell  it  too.  She 
would  not  be  an  impostor  ;  and  then  there  flushed  upon  her 
the  agonizing  thought,  before  which  all  else  seemed  us 
naught — in  the  proud  heart  of  Arthur  Carrollton  was  there 


406  MAGGIE    MILLER. 

a  place  for  Hagar  Warren's  grandchild  ?  "No  .  no  !  no  !* 
she  moaned  ;  and  the  next  moment  she  lay  at  Hagar's  feet, 
white,  rigid  and  insensible. 

"  She's  dead  1"  cried  Hagar  ;  and  for  one  brief  instant 
she  hoped  that  it  was  so. 

But  not  then  and  there  was  Margaret  to  die  ;  and  slowly 
she  came  back  to  life,  shrinking  from  the  touch  of  Hagar'a 
hand,  when  she  felt  it  on  Tier  brow. 

"  There  may  be  some  mistake,"  she  whispered;  but  Hagar 
answered,  "  there  is  none  ;"  at  the  same  time  relating  so 
minutely  the  particulars  of  the  deception,  that  Maggie  was 
convinced,  and  covering  her  face  with  her  hands,  sobbed 
uloud,  while  Hagar,  sitting  by  in  silence,  was  nerving  her 
self  to  tell  the  rest. 

The  sun  had  set,  and  the  twilight  shadows  were  stealing 
down  upon  them,  when  creeping  abjectly  upon  her  knees 
towards  the  wretched  girl,  she  said,  "  There  is  more,  Maggie, 
more — I  have  not  told  you  all." 

But  Maggie  had  heard  enough,  and  exerting  all  her 
strength,  she  sprang  to  her  feet,  while  Hagar  clutched 
eagerly  at  her  dress,  which  was  wrested  from  her  grasp,  as 
Maggie  fled  away — away — she  knew  not,  cared  not  whither, 
so  that  she  were  beyond  the  reach  of  the  trembling  voice, 
which  called  after  her  to  return.  Alone  in  the  deep  woods, 
with  the  darkness  falling  around  her,  she  gave  way  to  the 
mighty  sorrow  which  had  come  so  suddenly  upon  her.  She 
could  not  doubt  what  she  had  heard.  She  knew  that  it  waa 
true,  and  as  proof  after  proof  crowded  upon  her,  until  the 
chain  of  evidence  was  complete,  she  laid  her  head  upon  the 
rain-wet  grass,  and  shudderingly  stopped  her  ears,  to  shut 
out,  if  possible,  the  memory  of  the  dreadful  words,  "  I,  the 
shrivelled,  skinny  hag,  who  tells  you  this,  am  your  own  grand 
mother."  For  a  long  time  she  lay  there  thus,  weeping  tiU 


PERPLEXITY.  407 

the  fountain  of  her  tears  seemed  dry  ;  then  weary,  faint,  and 
sick,  she  started  for  her  home.  Opening  cautiously  the  outer 
door,  she  was  gliding  up  the  stairs,  when  Madam  Conway, 
entering  the  hall  with  a  lamp,  discovered  her,  and  uttered 
an  exclamation  of  surprise  at  the  strangeness  of  her  appear 
ance.  Her  dress,  be-draggled  and  wet,  was  torn  in  several 
places  by  the  briery  bushes  she  had  passed  ;  her  hair,  loos 
ened  from  its  confinement,  hung  down  her  back,  while  her 
face  was  so  white  and  ghastly,  that  Madam  Conway  in  much 
alarm  followed  her  up  the  stairs,  asking  what  had  hap 
pened. 

"  Something  dreadful  came  to  me  in  the  woods,"  said 
Maggie,  "  but  I  can't  tell  you  to-night.  To-morrow  I  shall 
be  better — or  dead — oh,  /  wish  I  could  be  dead — before  you 

hate  me  so:  dear  grand No  I  didn't  mean  that*— you  ain't; 

forgive  me,  do,"  and  sinking  to  the  floor,  she  kissed  the  very 
hem  of  Madam  Conway's  dress. 

Unable  to  understand  what  she  meant,  Madam  Conway 
divested  her  of  her  damp  clothing,  and  placing  her  in  bed, 
sat  down  beside  her,  saying  gently,  "  Can  you  tell  me  now 
what  frightened  you  ?" 

A  faint  cry  was  Maggie's  only  answer,  and  taking  the 
lady's  hand,  she  laid  it  upon  her  forehead,  where  the  drops 
of  perspiration  were  standing  thickly.  All  night  long  Madam 
Conway  sat  by  her,  going  once  to  communicate  with  Arthur 
Carrollton,  who,  anxious  and  alarmed,  came  often  to  the 
door,  asking  if  she  slept.  She  did  sleep  at  last — a  fitful  fever 
ish  sleep  ;  but  ever  at  the  sound  of  Mr.  Carrollton's  voice  a 
epasrn  of  pain  distorted  her  features,  and  a  low  moan  came 
Tom  her  lips.  Maggie  had  been  terribly  excited,  and  when 
next  morning  she  awoke,  she  was  parched  with  burning 
fever,  while  her  mind  at  intervals  seemed  wandering  ;  and 
ere  two  days  were  passed,  she  was  raving  with  delirium. 


*08  MAGGIE    MILLER. 

brought  on,  the  physician  said,  by  some  sudden  shock,  the 
nature  of  which  no  one  could  even  guess. 

For  three  weeks  she  hovered  between  life  and  death, 
whispering  oft  of  the  ''  horrid  shape  which  had  met  her  in 
the  woods,  robbing  her  of  happiness  and  life."  Winding 
aer  feeble  arms  around  Madam  Conway's  neck,  she  would 
beg  of  her  most  piteously  "  not  to  cast  her  off — not  to  send 
\er  away  from  the  only  home  she  had  ever  known — for  I 
couldn't  help  it,"  she  would  say.  "  I  didn't  know  it,  and 
I've  loved  you  all  so  much — so  much  I  Say,  grandma,  may 
I  call  you  grandma  all  the  same  ?  Will  you  love  poor 
Maggie  a  little  ?"•  and  Madam  Couway,  listening  to  words 
whose  meaning  she  could  not  fathom,  would  answer  by  lay 
ing  the  achiug  head  upon  her  bosom,  and  trying  to  soothe 
the  excited  girl.  Theo,  too,  was  summoned  home,  but  at 
her  Maggie  at  first  refused  to  look,  and  covering  her  eyes 
with  her  hand  she  whispered  scornfully,  "pinched  and  blue, 
and  pale;  that's  the  very  look.  I  couldn't  see  it  when  I 
called  you  sister." 

Then  her  mood  would  change,  and  motioning  Theo  to  her 
side,  she  would  say  to  her,  "  Kiss  me  once,  Theo,  just  as 
you  used  to  do  when  I  was  Maggie  Miller." 

Towards  Arthur  Carrolltou  she  from  the  first'  mauifested 
fear,  shuddering  whenever  he  approached  her,  and  still  ex 
hibiting  signs  of  uneasiness  if  he  left  her  sight.  "  He  hated 
her,"  she  said,  "  hated  her  for  what  she  could  not  help;" 
and  when,  as  he  often  did,  he  came  to  her  bedside,  speaking 
to  her  words  of  love,  she  would  answer  mournfully,  "  Don't, 
Mr.  Carrollton;  your  pride  is  stronger  than  your  love.  You 
will  hate  me  when  you  know  it  all." 

Thus  two  weeks  went  by,  and  then  with  the  first  May 
day,  reason  returned  again,  bringing  life  and  strength  to  the 
invalid,  and  joy  to  those  who  had  so  anxiously  watched  over 


PERPLEXITY.  409 

her.     Almost  her  first  rational  question  was  for  Hagar,  nnd 
if  she  had  been  there. 

"  She  is  confined  to  her  bed  with  inflammatory  rheuma 
tism/'  answered  Madam  Conway,  "but  she  inquires  for  you 
every  day,  they  say ;  and  once  when  told  you  could  not  live, 
she  started  to  crawl  on  her  hands  and  knees  to  see  you,  but 
fainted  near  the  gate  and  was  carried  back." 

"  Poor  old  woman  !"  murmured  Maggie,  the  tears  rolling 
down  her  cheeks,  as  she  thought  how  strong  must  be  tho 
love  that  half  crazed  creature  bore  her,  and  how  little  it 
was  returned,  for  every  feeling  of  her  nature  revolted  from 
claiming  a  near  relationship  with  one  whom  she  had  hitherto 
regarded  as  a  servant.  The  secret,  too,  seemed  harder  to 
divulge,  and  day  by  day  she  put  it  off,  saying  to  them  when 
they  asked  what  had  so  much  affected  her,  that  "  she  could 
not  tell  them  yet — she  must  wait  till  she  was  stronger." 

So  Theo  went  back  to  Worcester  as  mystified  as  ever,  and 
Maggie  was  left  much  alone  with  Arthur  Carrollton,  who 
strove  in  various  ways  to  win  her  from  the  melancholy  into 
which  she  had  fallen.  All  day  long  she  would  sit  by  the 
open  window,  seemingly  immovable,  her  large  eyes,  now  in 
tensely  black,  fixed  upon  vacancy,  and  her  white  face  giving 
no  sign  of  the  fierce  struggle  within,  save  when  Madam 
Conway,  coming  to  her  side,  would  lay  her  hand  caressingly 
on  her  iu  token  of  sympathy.  Then,  indeed,  her  lips  would 
quiver,  and  turning  her  head  away,  she  would  say,  "  Don't 
touch  me — don't." 

To  Arthur  Carrollton  she  would  listen  with  apparent 
composure,  though  often  as  he  talked,  her  long,  tapering 
nails  left  their  impress  in  her  flesh,  so  hard  she  strove  to 
seem  indifferent.  Once  when  tlioy  were  left  together  alone 
he  drew  her  to  his  side,  and  bending  very  low,  so  that  his 
lips  almost  touched  her  marble  cheek,  he  told  her  of  his 

18 


110  MAGGIE    MILLER. 

love,  and  how  full  of  anguish  was  his  heart  when  he  thought 
that  she  would  die. 

"But  God  kindly  gave  you  back  to  me,"  he  said  ;  "  and 
now,  my  precious  Margaret,  will  you  be  my  wife  ?  Will  you 
go  with  me  to  my  English  home,  from  which  I've  tarried 
now  too  long,  because  I  would  not  leave  you  ?  Will  Maggie 
answer  me  ?"  and  he  folded  her  lovingly  in  his  arms. 

Oh,  how  could  she  tell  him  "  No,"  when  every  fibre  of 
her  heart  thrilled  with  the  answer  "  Yes!"  She  mistook 
him — mistook  the  character  of  Arthur  Carrollton,  for  though 
pride  was  strong  within  him,  he  loved  the  beautiful  girl  who 
lay  trembling  in  his  arms,  better  than  he  loved  his  pride  ; 
and  had  she  told  him  then,  who  and  what  she  was,  he  would 
not  have  deemed  it  a  disgrace  to  love  a  child  of  Hagar 
Warren.  But  Margaret  did  not  know  him,  and  when  he 
said  again,  "  will  Maggie  answer  me  ?"  there  came  from  her 
lips  a  piteous,  wailing  cry,  and  turning  her  face  away,  she 
answered  mournfully,  "  No,  Mr.  Carrollton,  no,  I  cannot  be 
your  wife.  It  breaks  my  heart  to  tell  you  so  ;  but  if  you 
knew  what  I  know,  you  would  never  have  spoken  to  me 
wosds  of  love.  You  would  have  rather  thrust  me  from  you, 
for  indeed  I  am  unworthy." 

"  Don't  yon  love  me,  Maggie  ?"  Mr.  Carrollfon  said,  and 
in  the  tones  of  his  voice  there  was  so  much  of  tenderness 
that  Maggie  burst  into  tears,  and  involuutarily  resting  her 
head  upon  his  bosom,  answered  sadly,  "  I  love  you  so  much, 
Arthur  Carrolltou,  tnat  I  would  die  a  hundred  deaths  could 
that  make  me  worthy  of  you,  as  not  long  ago  I  thought  I  was 
But  it  cannot  be.  Something  terrible  has  come  between  us.* 

"  Tell  me  what  it  is.  Let  me  share  your  sorrow."  h« 
said  ;  but  Maggie  only  answered,  "  Not  yet,  not  yet.  Let 
me  live  where  you  are  a  little  longer.  Then  I  will  tell  you 
all,  and  go  away  forever." 


PERPLEXITY.  «t, 

This  was  all  the  satisfaction  he  could  obtain  ;  but  after  a 
time  she  promised  that  if  he  would  not  mention  the  subject 
to  her  until  the  first  of  June,  she  would  then  tell  him  every 
thing  ;  and  satisfied  with  a  promise  which  he  knew  would 
be  kept,  Mr.  Carrollton  waited  impatiently  for  the  appointed 
time,  while  Maggie,  too,  counted  each  «nm  as  it  rose  and  set, 
.winging  nearer  and  uearer  a  trial  she  so  much  dreaded. 


MAGGIE    MILLER. 


If  fl  AFTER     XX. 

THE    RESULT. 

Two  days  only  remained  ere  the  first  of  June,  aud  in  the 
solitude  of  her  chamber,  Maggie  was  weeping  bitterly. 
"  How  can  I  tell  them  who  I  am  ?"  she  thought.  "  How 
bear  their  pitying  scorn,  when  they  learn  that  she  whom 
they  call  Maggie  Miller  has  no  right  to  that  name  ? — that 
Hagar  Warren's  blood  is  flowing  in  her  veins — and  Madam 
Couway  thinks  so  much  of  that  1  Oh,  why  was  Hagar  left 
to  do  me  this  great  wrong  ?  why  did  she  take  me  from  the 
jine-board  cradle,  where  she  says  I  lay,  and  make  me  what 
I  was  not  born  to  be  ?"  and  falling  on  her  knees  the  wretch 
ed  girl  prayed  that  it  might  prove  a  dream,  from  which  she 
would  ere  long  awake. 

Alas  for  thee,  poor  Maggie  Miller !  It  is  not  a  dream, 
but  a  stern  reality,  aud  you  who  oft  have  spurned  at  birth 
and  family,  why  should  you  murmur  now  when  both  are 
taken  from  you  ?  Are  you  not  still  the  same,  beautiful, 
accomplished  and  refined,  and  can  you  ask  for  more  ? 
Strange  that  theory  and  practice  so  seldom  should  accord. 
Aud  yet  it  was  not  the  degradation  which  Maggie  felt  so 
keenly,  it  was  rather  the  loss  of  love  she  feared  ;  and  with 
out  that,  the  blood  of  royalty  could  not  avail  to  make  her 
happy. 

Maggie  was  a  warm-hearted  girl,  and  she  loved  the 
stately  lady  she  had  been  wout  to  call  her  grandmother 


THE    RESULT.  418 

with  a  filial,  clinging  love,  which  could  not  be  severed,  and 
still  this  love  was  nanght  compared  to  what  she  felt  for 
Arthur  Carrollton,  and  the  giving  up  of  him  was  the  hard 
est  part  of  all.  But  it  must  be  done,  she  thought  ;  he  had 
told  her  once  that  were  she  Hagar  Warren's  grandchild,  he 
should  not  be  riding  with  her — how  much  less  then  would 
lie  make  that  child  his  wife !  and  rather  than  meet  the  look 
of  proud  disdain  his  face  would  wear,  when  first  she  stood 
confessed  before  him,  she  resolved  to  go  away  where  no  one 
had  ever  heard  of  her  or  Ilagar  Warren.  She  would  leave 
Dehind  a  letter  telling  why  she  went,  and  commending  to 
Madam  Conway's  care  poor  Ilagar,  who  had  been  sorely 
punished  for  her  sin.  "  But  whither  shall  I  go,  and  what 
shall  I  do,  when  I  get  there  ?"  she  cried,  trembling  at  the 
thoughts  of  a  world  of  which  she  knew  so  little.  Then,  aa 
she  remembered  how  many  young  girls  of  her  age  went  out 
as  teachers,  she  determined  to  go  at  all  events.  "  It  will 
be  better  than  staying  here  where  I  have  no  claim,"  she 
thought,  and  nerving  herself  for  the  task,  she  sat  down  to 
write  the  letter,  which,  on  the  first  of  June,  should  tell  to 
Madam  Conway  and  Arthur  Carrollton  the  story  of  her 
birth. 

It  was  a  harder  task  than  she  supposed,  the  writing  that 
farewell,  for  it  seemed  like  severing  every  hallowed  tie. 
Three  times  she  wrote,  "  My  dear  grandma,"  then  with  a 
throb  of  anguish,  she  dashed  her  pen  across  the  revered 
name,  and  wrote  simply,  "Madam  Conway."  It  was  a  ram 
bling,  impassioned  letter,  full  of  tender  love — of  hope  des 
troyed — of  deep  despair — and  though  it  shadowed  forth  no 
expectation  that  Madam  Conway  or  Mr.  Carrollton  would 
ever  take  her  to  their  hearts  again,  it  begged  of  them  most 
touchingly  to  think  sometimes  of  "Maggie,"  when  she  wa8 
gone  forever.  Hagar  was  then  commended  to  Madam  Con 


414  MAGGIE    MILLER. 

way's  forgiveness  and  care.  "  She  is  old,"  wrote  Maggie, 
"her  life  is  nearly  ended,  and  if  you  have  in  your  heart 
one  feeling  of  pity  for  her,  who  used  to  call  you  grandma, 
bestow  it,  I  pray  you,  on  poor  old  Ilagar  Warren." 

The  letter  was  finished,  and  then  suddenly  remember 
ing  Hagar's  words,  that  "all  had  not  been  told,"  and  feel 
ing  it  her  duty  to  see  once  more  the  woman  who  had 
brought  her  so  much  sorrow,  Maggie  stole  cautiously  from 
the  house,  and  was  soon  walking  down  the  woodland  road, 
slowly,  sadly,  for  the  world  had  changed  to  her  since  last 
she  trod  that  path.  Maggie,  too,  was  changed,  and  when  at 
last  she  stood  before  Ilagar,  who  was  now  able  to  sit  up, 
the  latter  could  scarcely  recognize  in  the  pale,  haggard 
woman,  the  blooming,  merry-hearted  girl,  once  known  as 
Maggie  Miller. 

"  Margaret,"  she  cried,  "  you  have  come  again — come  to 

forgive  your  poor  old  grand No,  no,"  she  added,  as  she 

saw  the  look  of  pain  flash  over  Maggie's  face,  "  I'll  never 
insult  you  with  that  name.  Only  say  that  you  forgive,  me, 
will  you,  Miss  Margaret  ?"  and  the  trembling  voice  was 
choked  with  sobs,  while  the  aged  form  shook  as  with  a  pal 
sied  stroke. 

Hagar  had  been  ill.  Exposure  to  the  damp  air  on  that 
memorable  night  had  brought  on  a  second  severe  attack  of 
rheumatism,  which  had  bent  her  nearly  double.  Anxiety 
for  Margaret,  too,  had  wasted  her  to  a  skeleton,  and  her 
thin,  sharp  face,  now  of  a  corpse-like  pallor,  contrasted 
strangely  with  her  eyes,  from  which  the  wildness  all  was 
gone  Touched  with  pity,  Maggie  drew  a  chair  to  her 
side,  and  thus  replied,  "  I  do  forgive  you,  Ilagar,  for  I  know 
that  what  you  did  was  done  in  love;  but  by  telling  me  what 
you  have,  you've  ruined  all  my  hopes  of  happiness.  In  the 
new  scenes  to  which  I  go,  and  the  new  associations  I  shalj 


TIIE    RESULT.  4lfi 

form,  I  ma)7  become  contented  with  my  lot,  but  never  can  I 
forget  that  I  once  was  Maggie  Miller." 

"  Margaret,"  gasped  Hagar,  and  in  her  dim  eye  there  wag 
something  of  its  olden  fire,  "  if  by  new  associations  you  mean 
Henry  Warner,  it  must  not  be.  Alas,  that  I  should  tell 
this  !  but  Henry  is  your  brother — your  father's  only  son.  Oh, 
horror,  horror !"  and  dreading  what  Margaret  would  say, 
she  covered  her  face  with  her  cramped,  distorted  hands. 

But  Margaret  was  not  so  much  affected  as  Hagar  had 
anticipated.  She  had  suffered  severely,  and  could  not  now 
be  greatly  moved.  There  was  an  involuntary  shudder  as 
she  thought  of  her  escape,  and  then  her  next  feeling  was 
one  of  satisfaction  in  knowing  that  she  was  not  quite  friend 
less  and  alone,  for  Henry  would  protect  her,  and  Rose, 
indeed,  would  be  to  her  a  sister. 

'r  Henry  Warner  my  brother  !"  she  exclaimed,  "  how 
came  you  by  this  knowledge  ?"  And  very  briefly  Hagar 
explained  to  her  what  she  knew,  saying  that  Hester  had 
told  her  of  two  young  children,  but  she  had  forgotten 
entirely  their  existence,  and  now  that  she  was  reminded  of 
it,  she  could  not  help  fancying  that  Hester  said  the  step 
child  was  a  boy.  But  the  peddler  knew,  of  course,  and  she 
must  have  forgotten. 

(i  When  the  baby  they  thought  was  you,  died,"  said 
Hagar,  "  I  wrote  to  the  minister  in  Meriden,  telling  him  of 
it,  but  I  did  not  sign  my  name,  and  1  thought  that  was  the 
last  I  should  ever  hear  of  it.  Why  don't  you  curse  me  ?" 
Bhe  continued.  "  Haven't  I  taken  from  you  your  intended 
husband,  as  well  as  your  name  ?" 

Maggie  understood  perfectly  now  why  the  secret  had 
>cen  revealed,  and  involuntarily  she  exclaimed,  "  Oh,  had  I 
told  yon  first,  this  never  need  have  been  ;"  and  then  hur- 
riedly  she  explained  to  the  repentant  Hagar  how  at  th« 


416  MAGGIE    MILLER. 

very  moment  when  the  dread  confession  was  made,  she, 
Maggie  Miller,  was  free  from  Henry  Warner. 

From  the  window  Maggie  saw  in  the  distance  the  servant 
who  had  charge  of  Hagar,  and  dreading  the  presence  of  a 
Hard  person,  she  arose  to  go.  Offering  her  hand  to  Hagar 
she  said,  "  Good  bye.  I  may  never  see  you  again,  but  if  I 
do  not,  remember  that  I  forgive  you  freely." 

"  You  are  not  going  away,  Maggie.  Oh,  are  you  going 
away  !"  and  the  crippled  arms  were  stretched  imploringly 
towards  Maggie,  who  answered,  "Yes,  Hagar,  I  must  go. 
Honor  requires  me  to  tell  Madam  Conway  who  I  am,  and 
after  that,  you  know  that  I  cannot  stay.  I  shall  go  to  my 
brother." 

Three  times  old  Hagar  essayed  to  speak,  and  at  last, 
between  a  whisper  and  a  moan,  she  found  strength  to  say, 
"  Will  you  kiss  me  once,  Maggie  darling  ?  'Twill  be  some 
thing  to  remember,  in  the  lonesome  nights  when  I  am  all 
alone.  Just  once,  Maggie.  Will  you  ?" 

Maggie  could  not  refuse,  and  gliding  to  the  bowed 
woman's  side,  she  put  back  the  soft  hair  from  off  the  wrink 
led  brow,  and  left  there  token  of  her  forgiveness. 


The  last  May  sun  had  set,  and  ere  the  first  June  morning 
rose  Maggie  Miller  would  be  nowhere  found  in  the  homo 
her  presence  had  made  so  bright.  Alone,  with  no  eye  upon 
her  save  that  of  the  Most  High,  she  had  visited  the  two 
graves,  and  while  her  heart  was  bleeding  at  every  pore,  had 
wept  her  last  adieu  over  the  sleeping  dust  so  long  held 
eacred  as  her  mother's.  Then  kneeling  at  the  other  grave, 
she  murmured,  "  Forgive  me,  Hester  Hamilton,  if  in  this 
parting  hour  my  heart  clings  most  to  her  whose  memory  J 


THE    RESULT.  41J 

was  first  taught  to  revere  ;  and  if  in  the  better  world  yoa 
know  and  love  each  other,  oh,  will  both  bless  and  pity  me, 
poor,  wretched  Maggie  Miller  !" 

Softly  the  night  air  moved  through  the  musical  pine  over 
shadowing  the  humble  grave,  while  the  moonlight,  flashing 
from  the  tall  marble,  which  stood  a  sentinel  over  the  other 
mound,  bathed  Maggie's  upturned  face  as  with  a  flood  of 
glory,  and  her  throbbing  heart  grew  still  as  if  indeed  at  that 
hushed  moment  the  two  mothers  had  come  to  bless  their 
child.  The  parting  with  the  dead  was  over,  and  Margaret 
Bat  again  in  her  room,  waiting  until  all  was  still  about  the 
old  stone  house.  She  did  not  add  to  her  letter  another  line 
telling  of  her  discovery,  for  she  did  not  think  of  it ;  her 
rniud  was  too  intent  upon  escaping  unobserved  ;  and  when 
sure  the  family  had  retired,  she  moved  cautiously  down  the 
stairs,  noiselessly  unlocked  the  door,  and  without  once 
daring  to  look  back,  lest  she  should  waver  in  her  purpose, 
she  went  forth,  heart-broken  and  alone,  from  what  for 
eighteen  happy  years  had  been  her  home.  Very  rapidly 
she  proceeded,  corning  at  last  to  an  open  field  through  which 
the  railroad  ran,  the  depot  being  nearly  a  quarter  of  a 
mile  away.  Not  until  then  had  she  reflected  that  her 
appearance  at  the  station  at  that  hour  of  the  night  would 
excite  suspicion,  and  she  was  beginning  to  feel  uneasy,  when 
suddenly  around  a  curve  the  cars  appeared  in  view.  Fear 
ing  lest  she  should  be  too  late,  she  quickened  her  footsteps, 
when  to  her  great  surprise,  she  saw  that  the  train  was  stop 
ping  !  But  not  for  her  they  waited,  in  the  bright  moonlight 
the  engineer  had  discovered  a  body  lying  across  the  track 
end  had  stopped  the  train  in  time  to  save  the  life  of  tho 
man,  who,  stupefied  with  drunkenness,  had  failed  asleep.  The 
movement  startled  the  passengers,  many  of  whom  alighted 
and  gathered  around  the  inebriate. 

18* 


418  MAGGIE    MILLER 

In  the  meantime,  Margaret  hac!  come  near,  and  knowirg 
she  could  not  now  reach  the  depot  in  time,  she  mingled 
unobserved  in  the  crowd,  and  entering  the  rear  car,  took  hei 
seat  near  the  door.  The  train  at  last  moved  on,  and  as  at 
the  station  no  one  save  the  agent  was  in  waiting,  it  is  not 
strange  that  the  conductor  passed  unheeded  the  veiled  figure 
which  in  the  dark  corner  sat  ready  to  pay  her  fare. 

"  He  will  come  to  me  by  and  by,"  thought  Maggie,  but 
he  did  not,  and  when  Worcester  was  reached,  she  wag 
still  debtor  to  the  Boston  &  Albany  Railroad  for  the  sum  of 
seventy  cents.  Bewildered  and  uncertain  what  to  do  next, 
she  stepped  upon  the  platform,  deciding  finally  to  remain  at 
the  depot  until  morning,  when  a  train  would  leave  for 
Leominster,  where  she  confidently  expected  to  find  her 
brother.  Taking  a  seat  in  the  ladies'  room,  she  abandoned 
herself  to  her  sorrow,  wondering  what  Theo  would  say 
could  she  see  her  then.  But  Tlieo,  though  dreaming  it  may 
be  of  Maggie,  dreamed  not  that  she  was  near,  and  so  the 
night  wore  on,  Margaret  sleeping  towards  daylight,  and 
dreaming,  too,  of  Arthur  Carrollton,  who  she  thought  had 
followed  her — nay,  was  bending  over  her  now  and  whisper' 
iug  in  her  ear,  "  Wake,  Maggie,  wake." 

Starting  up,  she  glanced  anxiously  around,  uttering  a 
faint  cry  when  she  saw  that  it  was  not  Arthur  Carrollton, 
but  a  dark,  rough-looking  stranger,  who  rather  rudely  asked 
"  where  she  wished  to  go  ?" 

"  To  Leominster,"  she  answered,  turning  her  face  fully 
towards  the  man,  who  became  instantly  respectful,  telling 
her  when  the  train  would  leave,  and  saying  that  she  must 
go  to  another  depot,  at  the  same  time  asking  if  she  had  not 
better  wait  at  some  hotel. 

But  Maggie  preferred  going  at  once  to  the  Fitch  burg 
depot,  which  she  accordingly  did,  and  drawing  her  veil  ove' 


THE    RESULT.  41* 

her  face,  lest  some  one  of  her  few  acquaintances  in  the  city 
should  recognize  her,  she  sat  there  until  the  time  appointed 
for  the  cars  to  leave.  Then,  weary  and  faint,  she  entered  thp 
train,  her  spirits  in  a  measure  rising  as  she  felt  that  she  was, 
drawing  near  to  those  who  would  love  her  for  what  she  wa,« 
and  not  for  what  she  had  been.  Rose  would  comfort  her, 
and  already  her  heart  bounded  with  the  thought  of  seeing 
one  whom  she  believed  to  be  her  brother's  wife,  for  Henry 
had  written  that  ere  this  his  homeward  voyage  was  made, 
Rose  would  be  his  bride. 

Ah,  Maggie  !  thQre  is  for  you  a  greater  happiness  in  store 
— not  a  brother,  but  a  sister — your  father's  child  is  there  to 
greet  your  coming.  And  even  at  this  early  hour,  her  snow 
white  fingers  are  arranging  the  fair  June  blossoms  into  bou 
quets,  with  which  she  adorns  her  house,  saying  to  him  who 
hovers  at  her  side,  "  that  somebody,  she  knows  not  whom, 
is  surely  coming  there  to-day;"  and  then,  with  a  blush  steal 
ing  over  her  cheek,  she  adds  :  "  I  wish  it  might  be  Marga 
ret;"  while  Henry,  with  a  peculiar  twist  of  his  comical 
mouth,  winds  his  arm  around  her  waist,  and  playfully  res 
ponds,  "Any  one  save  her." 


<10  MAGGIE    MILLER. 


CHAP  TEH     XXI. 

THE    SISTERS. 

ON  a  cool  piazza  overlooking  a  handsome  flower  garden, 
the  breakfast  table  was  tastefully  arranged.  It  was  Rose's 
idea  to  have  it  there,  and  in  her  cambric  wrapper,  her 
golden  curls  combed  smoothly  back,  and  her  blue  eyes  shin 
ing  with  the  light  of  a  new  joy,  she  occupies  her  accustomed 
seat  beside  one  who  for  several  happy  weeks  has  called  her 
his,  loving  her  more  and  more  each  day,  and  wondering 
how  thoughts  of  any  other  could  ever  have  filled  his  heart. 
There  was  much  to  be  done  about  his  home,  so  long  deser 
ted,  and  as  Rose  was  determined  upon  a  trip  to  the  sea  side, 
he  had  made  arrangements  to  be  absent  from  his  business 
for  two  mouths  or  more,  and  was  now  enjoying  all  the  hap 
piness  of  a  quiet,  domestic  life,  free  from  care  of  any  kind. 
He  had  heard  of  Maggie's  illness,  but  she  was  better  now, 
he  supposed,  and  when  Theo  hinted  vaguely  that  a  marriage 
between  her  and  Arthur  Carrolltou  was  not  at  all  improba 
ble,  he  hoped  it  would  be  so,  for  the  Englishman,  he  knew, 
was  far  better  adapted  to  Margaret  than  he  had  ever  beeu. 
Of  Theo's  hints  he  was  speaking  to  Rose,  as  they  sat  to 
gether  at  breakfast,  and  she  had  answered,  "  It  will  be  a 
splendid  match,"  when  the  door-bell  rang,  and  the  servant 
announced,  "a  lady  in  the  parlor,  who  asked  for  Mr.  Warner." 

"  I  told  you  some  one  would  come,"  said  Rose  ;  "  do  pray 
see  who  it  is.  How  does  she  look,  Janet  ?" 

"  Tall,   white   as  a   ghost,   with  big,   black   eyes,"   wif 


THE    SISTERS.  421 

Janet's  answer;  and  with  his  curiosity  awakei  ed,  Henry 
Warner  started  for  the  parlor,  Rose  following  on  tiptoe,  and 
listening  through  the  half  closed  door  to  what  their  visitor 
might  say. 

Margaret  had  experienced  no  difficulty  in  finding  the 
house  of  Mrs.  Warner,  which  seemed  to  her  a  second  Para 
dise,  so  beautiful  and  cool  it  looked,  nestled  amid  the  tall, 
green  forest  trees.  Everything  around  it  betokened  the  fine 
Taste  of  its  occupants,  and  Maggie,  as  she  reflected  that 
she,  too,  was  nearly  connected  with  this  family,  felt  her 
wounded  pride  in  a  measure  soothed,  for  it  was  surely  no  dis 
grace  to  claim  such  people  as  her  friends.  With  a  beating 
heart,  she  rang  the  bell,  asking  for  Mr.  Warner,  and  now, 
trembling  in  every  limb,  she  awaited  his  coming.  He  was 
not  prepared  to  meet  her,  and  at  first  he  did  not  know  her, 
she  was  so  changed  ;  but  when,  throwing  aside  her  bonnet, 
she  turned  her  face  so  the  light  from  the  window  opposite 
shone  fully  upon  her,  he  recognized  her  in  a  moment,  and 
exclaimed,  "  Margaret,  Margaret  Miller  I  why  are  you  here  ?" 

The  words  reached  Rose's  ear,  and  darting  forward,  she 
stood  within  the  door,  just  as  Margaret,  staggering  a  step 
or  two  towards  Henry,  answered  passionately,  "  I  have  como 
to  tell  you  what  I  myself  but  recently  have  learned  ;"  and 
wringing  her  hands  despairingly,  she  continued,  "  I  am  not 
Maggie  Miller,  I  am  not  anybody,  I  am  Hagar  Warren's 
grandchild,  the  offspring  of  her  daughter  and  your  own  father! 
Oh,  Henry,  don't  you  see  it  ?  I  am  youf  sister.  Take  me  as 
such,  will  you  ?  Love  me  as  such,  or  I  shall  surely  die.  I 
hare  nobody  now  in  the  wide  world  but  you.  They  are  all 
gone,  all— Madam  Conway,  Thco  too,  and--and"-  —She 
could  not  speak  that  name.  It  died  upon  her  lips,  and  tot 
tering  to  a.  chair  she  would  have  fallen  had  not  Henrj 
caught  her  in  his  arms. 


422  MAGGIE    MILLER. 

Leading  her  to  the  sofa,  while  Rose,  perfectly  confounded 
still  stood  within  the  door,  he  said  to  the  half  crazed  girl, 
"  Margaret,  I  do  not  understand  you.  I  never  had  a  sister, 
and  my  father  died  when  I  was  six  months  old.  There 
xnust  be  some  mistake.  Will  you  tell  me  what  you  mean  ?" 

Bewildered  and  perplexed,  Margaret  began  a  hasty  repe« 
tition  of  Hagar's  story,  but  ere  it  was  three-fourths  told,  there 
came  from  the  open  door  a  wild  cry  of  delight,  and  quick 
sis  lightning,  a  fairy  form  flew  across  the  floor,  white  arms 
were  twined  round  Maggie's  neck,  kiss  after  kiss  was 
pressed  upon  her  lips,  and  Rose's  voice  was  in  her  ear, 
never  before  half  so  sweet  as  now,  when  it  murmured 
soft  and  low  to  the  weary  girl,  My  sister  Maggie — mine 
you  are — the  child  of  my  own  father,  for  I  was  Rose. 
Hamilton,  called  Warner,  first  to  please  my  aunt,  and  next 
to  please  my  Henry.  Oh,  Maggie  darling,  I  am  so  happy 
now  f  and  the  little  snowy  hands  smoothed  caressingly  the 
bands  of  hair,  so  unlike  her  own  fair  waving  tresses. 

It  was,  indeed,  a  time  of  almost  perfect  bliss  to  them  all, 
and  for  a  moment  Margaret  forgot  her  pain,  which,  had 
Hagar  known  the  truth,  need  not  have  come  to  her.  But 
she  scarcely  regretted  it  now,  when  she  felt  Rose  Warner's 
heart  throbbing  against  her  own,  and  knew  their  father  was 
the  same. 

"  You  are  tired,"  Rose  said,  at  length,  when  much  had 
been  said  by  both.  "  You  must  have  rest,  and  then  I  will 
bring  to  you  my  aunt,  our  aunt,  Maggie — our  father's  sister. 
She  has  been  a  mother  to  me.  She  will  be  one  to  you. 
But  staj,"  she  continued,  "  you  have  had  no  breakfast.  I 
will  bring  you  some,"  and  she  tripped  lightly  from  the 
room. 

Maggie  followed  her  with  swimming  eyes,  then  turning  to 
Heury,  she  said.  "  You  are  very  happy,  I  am  sure." 


THE    SISTERS.  421 

"  Yes,  very,"  he  answered,  coming  to  her  side.  "  Hap 
py  in  my  wife,  happy  in  my  newly  found  sister,"  and  he 
laid  his  hand  on  hers,  with  something  of  his  former  fami 
liarity. 

But  the  olden  feeling  was  gone,  and  Maggie  could  now 
meet  his  glance  without  a  blush,  while  he  could  talk  with  her 
as  calmly  as  if  she  had  never  been  aught  to  him  save  the 
sister  of  his  wife.  Thus  often  changeth  the  human  heart's 
first  love. 

After  a  time,  Rose  returned,  bearing  a  silver  tray  heaped 
with  the  most  tempting  viands  ;  but  Maggie's  heart  was  too 
full  to  eat,  and  after  drinking  a  cup  of  the  fragrant  black 
tea,  which  Rose  herself  had  made,  she  laid  her  head  upon 
the  pillow,  which  Henry  brought,  and  with  Rose  sitting  by, 
holding  lovingly  her  hand,  she  fell  into  a  quiet  slumber. 
For  several  hours  she  slept,  and  when  she  awoke  at  last,  the 
sun  was  shining  in  at  the  western  window,  casting  over  the 
floor  a  glimmering  light,  and  reminding  her  so  forcibly  of 
the  dancing  shadows  on  the  grass  which  grew  around  the  old 
stone  house,  that  her  eyes  filled  with  tears,  and  thinking 
herself  alone,  she  murmured,  "  Will  it  never  be  my  home 
again  ?" 

A  sudden  movement,  the  rustling  of  a  dress  startled  her, 
and  lifting  up  her  head,  she  saw  standing  near,  a  pleasant- 
looking,  middle  aged  woman,  who,  she  rightly  guessed,  waa 
Mrs  Warner,  her  own  aunt. 

"  Maggie,"  the  lady  said,  laying  her  hand  on  the  fevered 
brow,  "  I  have  heard  a  strange  tale  to-day.  Heretofore  I 
had  supposed  Ross  to  be  my  only  child,  but  though  you  take 
me  by  surprise,  you  are  not  the  less  welcome.  There  is 
room  in  my  heart  for  you,  Maggie  Miller,  room  for  tho 
youngest  born  of  my  only  brother.  You  are  somewhat  like 
him,  too,"  she  continued,  "  though  more  like  your  mother;" 


t24  MAGGIE    MILLER. 

and  with  the  mention  of  that  name,  a  flush  stole  over  the 
lady's  face,  for  she,  too,  was  very  proud,  and  her  brother's 
marriage  with  a  servant  girl  had  never  been  quite  for 
given. 

Mrs.  Warner  had  seen  much  of  the  world,  and  Maggie 
&uew  her  to  be  a  woman  of  refinement,  a  woman  of  whom 
even  Madam  Conway  would  not  be  ashamed  ;  and  winding 
her  arms  around  her  neck,  she  said  impulsively,  "  I  am  glad 
you  are  my  aunt,  and  you  will  love  me,  I  am  sure,  even  if  I 
am  poor  Hagar's  grandchild." 

Mrs.  Warner  knew  nothing  of  Hagar,  save  from  Henry's 
amusing  description,  the  entire  truth  of  which  she  somewhat 
doubted ;  but  she  knew  that  whatever  Hagar  Warren 
might  be,  the  beautiful  girl  before  her  was  not  answerable 
for  it,  and  very  kindly  she  tried  to  soothe  her,  telling  her 
how  happy  they  would  be  together.  "  Rose  will  leave  mo 
in  the  autumn,"  she  said,  "  and  without  you  I  should  be  all 
alone."  Of  Hagar,  too,  she  spoke  kindly,  considerately, 
and  Maggie,  listening  to  her,  felt  somewhat  reconciled  to 
the  fate  which  had  made  her  what  she  was.  Still,  there 
was  much  of  pride  to  overcome  ere  she  could  calmly  think 
of  herself  as  other  than  Madam  Conway's  grandchild  ;  and 
when  that  afternoon,  as  Henry  and  Rose  were  sitting  with 
her,  the  latter  spoke  of  her  mother,  saying  she  had  a  faint 
remembrance  of  a  tall,  handsome  girl,  who  sang  her  to  sleep 
on  the  night  when  her  own  mother  died,  there  came  a  visi 
ble  shadow  over  Maggie's  face,  and  instantly  changing  the 
conversation,  she  asked  why  Henry  had  never  told  her  any- 
ihing  definite  concerning  himself  and  family. 

For  a  moment  Henry  seemed  embarrassed.  Both  the 
Hamiltons  and  the  Warners  were  very  aristocratic  in  their 
ieelings,  and  by  mutual  consent,  the  name  of  Hester  War 
ren  was  by  them  seldom  spoken.  Consequently,  if  thera 


THE    SISTERS.  -421 

ex/sted  a  reason  for  Henry's  silence  with  regard  to  his  own 
and  Rose's  history,  it  was  that  he  disliked  bringing  up  a 
subject  he  had  been  taught  to  avoid,  both  by  his  aunt  and 
the  mother  of  Mr.  Hamilton,  who  for  several  years  after  her 
sou's  death,  had  lived  with  her  daughter  in  Leominster, 
.v! icre  she  finally  died.  This,  however,  he  could  not  say  to 
Margaret,  and  after  a  little  hesitancy,  he  answered  laugh 
ingly,  "You  never  asked  me  for  any  particulars  ;  and  then, 
you  know,  I  was  more  agreeably  occupied  than  I  should 
have  been  had  I  spent  my  time  in  enlightening  yon  with 
regard  to  our  genealogy  ;"  and  the  saucy  mouth  smiled 
arch!y*-first  on  Rose,  and  then  on  Margaret,  both  of  whom 
blushed  slightly,  the  one  suspecting  he  had  not  told  her  the 
whole  truth,  and  the  other  knowing  he  had  not. 

Very  considerate  was  Rose  of  Maggie's  feelings,  and  not 
jiga-in  that  afternoon  did  she  speak  of  Hester,  though  she 
talked  much  of  their  father  ;  and  Margaret,  listening  to  his 
praises,  felt  herself  insensibly  drawn  towards  this  new 
claimant  for  her  filial  love.  "  I  wish  I  could  have  seen 
him,"  she  said,  and  starting  to  her  feet  Rose  answered, 
"  Strange  I  did  not  think  oT  it  before.  We  have  his  por 
trait.  Come  this  way,"  and  she  led  the  half  unwilling  Mag 
into  an  adjoining  room,  where  from  the  wall,  a  portly,  good- 
humored  looking  man,  gazed  down  upon  the  sisters,  his  eyes 
seeming  to  rest  with  mournful  tenderness  on  the  face  of  her 
whom  in  life  they  had  not  looked  upon.  He  seemed  older 
than  Mag  had  supposed,  and  the  hair  upon  his  head  was 
white,  reminding  her  of  Hagar.  But  she  did  not,  for  this, 
turn  from  him  away.  There  was  something  pleasing  in  the 
mild  expression  of  his  face,  and  she  whispered  faintly,  "  'Tia 
my  father." 

On  the  right  of  this  portrait  was  another,  the  picture  of 
a  woman,  in  whose  curling  lip  and  soft  brown  eyes,  Mag 


426  MAGGIE    MILLER. 

recognized  the  mother  of  Henry.  To  the  left  was  anolher 
still,  and  she  gazed  upon  the  angel  face,  with  eyes  of  violet 
blue,  and  hair  of  golden  brown,  on  which  the  fading  sun 
light  now  was  falling,  encircling  it  as  it  were  with  a  halo  of 
glory. 

"  You  are  much  like  her,"  she  said  to  Rose,  who  made  no 
answer,  for  she  was  thinking  of  another  picture,  which  year? 
before  had  been  banished  to  the  garret,  by  her  haughty 
grandmother,  as  unworthy  a  place  beside  him  who  had 
petted  and  caressed  the  young  girl  of  plebeian  birth  and 
kindred. 

"  I  can  make  amends  for  it,  though,"  thought  «Rose, 
(  returning  with  Mag  to  the  parlor  :  then,  seeking  out  her 
husband,  she  held  with  him  a  whispered  consultation,  the 
result  of  which  was  that  on  the  morrow,  there  was  a  rum 
maging  in  the  garret,  an  absence  from  home  for  an  hour  or 
two,  and  when  about  noon  she  returned,  there  was  a  pleased 
expression  on  her  face,  as  if  she  had  accomplished  her  pur 
pose,  whatever  it  might  have  been. 

All  the  morning  Mag  had  been  restless  and  uneasy,  wan 
dering  listlessly  from  room  to  room,  looking  anxiously  down 
the  street,  starting  nervously  at  the  sound  of  every  footstep, 
while  her  cheeks  alternately  flushed  and  then  grew  pale  as 
the  day  passed  on.  Dinner  being  over,  she  sat  alone  in  the 
parlor,  her  eyes  fixed  upon  the  carpet,  and  her  thoughts 
away  with  one  who  she  vaguely  hoped  would  have  followed 
her  ere  this.  True,  she  had  added  no  postscript  to  tell  him 
of  her  new  discovery  ;  but  Hagar  knew,  and  he  would  go  to 
her  for  a  confirmation  of  the  letter.  She  would  tell  him 
where  Mag  was  gone,  and  he,  if  his  love  could  survive  that 
shock,  would  follow  her  thither  ;  nay,  would  be  there  that 
very  day,  and  Maggie's  heart  grew  wearier,  fainter,  as  time 
wore  on  and  he  did  not  come.  "  I  miht  have  known  it," 


THE    SISTERS.  487 

s'ue  whispered  sadly.  "  I  did  know  that  he  would  never 
more  think  of  me,"  and  she  wept  silently  over  her  ruined 
love. 

"Maggie,  sister/'  came  to  her  ear,  and  Rose  was  ut  her 
side.  "  I  have  a  surprise  for  you,  darling.  Can  you  bear 
it  now  ?" 

Oh,  how  eagerly  poor  Maggie  Miller  looked  up  in  Rose's 
face.  The  car  whistle  had  sounded  half  an  hour  before. 
Could  it  be  that  he  had  conie  ?  Was  he  t/iere  ?  Did  he  l&ce 
her  still  ?  No,  Maggie,  no,  the  surprise  awaiting  you  is  of 
a  far  different  nature,  and  the  tears  flow  afresh  when  Rose, 
in  reply  to  the  question,  "  what  is  it,  darling  ?"  answers  "  it 
is  this,"  at  the  same  time  placing  in  Maggie's  hand  an  ara- 
brotype  which  she  bade  her  examine.  With  a  feeling  of 
keen  disappointment,  Maggie  opened  the  casing,  involunta 
rily  shutting  her  eyes  as  if  to  gather  strength  for  what  she 
was  to  see. 

It  was  a  young  face — a  handsome  face — a  face  much  like 
her  own,  while  in  the  curve  of  the  upper  lip,  and  the  expres 
sion  of  the  large  black  eyes,  there  was  a  look  like  Hagar 
Warren.  They  had  met  together  thus,  the  one  a  living 
reality,  the  other  a  semblance  of  the  dead,  and  she  who  held 
that  picture  trembled  violently.  There  was  a  fierce  strug 
gle  within,  the  wildly  beating  heart  throbbing  for  one 
moment  with  a  new-born  love,  and  then  rebelling  against 
taking  that  shadow,  beautiful  though  it  was,  in  place  of  her 
whose  memory  she  had  so  long  revered. 

"  Who  is  it,  Maggie  ?''  Rose  asked,  leaning  over  her 
shoulder. 

Maggie  knew  full  well  whose  face  it  was  she  looked  upon, 
but  not  yet  could  she  speak  that  name  so  interwoven  with 
memories  of  another,  and  she  answered  mournfully,  "it  is 
Hester  Hamilton." 


428  MAGGIE    MILLER. 

"  Yes,  Margaret,  your  mother,"  said  Rose.  *  I  never  tailed 
her  by  that  name,  but  I  respect  her  for  your  sake.  She 
was  my  father's  pet,  they  say,  for  he  was  comparatively  old 
and  she  his  young  girl-wife." 

"  Where  did  you  get  this  ?"  Maggie  asked ;  and,  coloring 
c:imson,  Rose  replied,  "We  have  always  had  her  portrait, 
but  grandmother,  who  was  very  old  and  foolishly  proud 
about  some  things,  was  offended  at  our  father's  last  mar 
riage,  and  when  after  his  death  the  portraits  were  brought 
here,  she — forgive  her,  Maggie — she  did  not  know  you,  or 
she  would  not  have  done  it " 

"I  know,"  interrupted  Maggie.  "  She  despised  this  Hes 
ter  Warren,  and  consigned  her  portrait  to  some  spot  from 
which  you  have  brought  it  and  had  this  taken  from  it." 

"  Not  despised  her,"  cried  Rose,  in  great  distress,  as  she 
saw  a  dark  expression  stealing  over  the  face  of  Maggie,  in 
whose  heart  a  chord  of  sympathy  had  been  struck,  when  she 
thought  of  her  mother  banished  from  her  father's  side. 
"  Grandma  could  not  despise  her,"  continued  Rose,  "  sho 
was  so  good,  so  beautiful." 

"  Yes,  she  was  beautiful,"  murmured  Maggie,  gazing 
earnestly  upon  the  fair,  round  face,  the  soft,  black  eyes  and 
raven  hair  of  her  who  for  years  had  slept  beneath  the  sha 
dow  of  the  Hillsdale  woods.  "  Oh,  I  wish  I  was  dead  like 
her,"  she  exclaimed  at  last,  closing  the  ambrotype,  and  lay 
ing  it  upon  the  table.  "  I  wish  I  was  lying  in  that  little 
grave  in  the  place  of  her  who  should  have  borne  my  name, 
and  been  what  I  once  was  ;"  and  bowing  her  face  upon  her 
hands  she  wept  bitterly,  while  Rose  tried  in  vain  to  comfort 
her.  "  I  am  not  sorry  you  are  my  sister,"  sobbed  Margaret- 
through  her  tears.  "  That's  the  only  comfort  I  have  left 
me  now  ;  but  Rose,  I  love  Arthur  Carrollton  so  much— ob 
BO  much  and  how  can  I  give  him  up  ?" 


THE    SISTERS.  429 

"  If  he  is  the  noble,  true-hearted  man  he  looks  to  be,  he 
will  not  give  you  up,"  answered  Rose,  and  then  for  the  first 
time  since  this  meeting  she  questioned  Margaret  concerning 
Mr.  Carrollton,  and  the  relations  existing  between  them 
"  He  will  not  cast  you  off,"  she  said,  when  Margaret  had 
told  her  all  she  had  to  tell,  "  He  may  be  proud,  but  he  will 
cling  to  you  still.  He  will  follow  you,  too — not  to-day, 
perhaps,  nor  to-morrow,  but  ere  long  he  will  surely  come  ;" 
and  listening  to  her  sister's  cheering  words,  Maggie  herself 
grew  hopeful,  and  that  evening  talked  animatedly  with  Hen 
ry  and  Rose  of  a  trip  to  the  sea-side  they  were  intending 
to  make.  "  You  will  go,  too,  Maggie,"  said  Rose,  caress 
ing  her  sister's  pale  cheek,  and  whispering  in  her  ear,  "  Aunt 
Susan  will  be  here  to  tell  Mr.  Carrollton  where  you  are,  if 
he  does  not  come  before  we  go,  which  I  am  sure  he  will." 

Maggie  tried  to  think  so,  too,  and  her  sleep  that  night 
was  sweeter  than  it  had  been  before  for  many  weeks — but 
the  next  day  came,  and  the  next,  and  Maggie's  eyes  grew 
dim  with  watching  and  with  tears,  for  up  and  down  the 
road,  as  far  as  she  could  see,  there  came  no  trace  of  him  for 
whom  she  waited." 

"  I  might  have  known  it  ;  it  was  foolish  for  me  to  think 
otherwise,"  she  sighed,  and  turning  sadly  from  the  window 
where  all  the  afternoon  she  had  been  sitting,  she  laid  her 
head  wearily  upon  the  lap  of  Rose. 

"  Maggie,"  said  Henry,  "  I  am  going  to  Worcester  to 
morrow,  and  perhaps  George  can  tell  me  something  cf  Mr 
Oarrollton." 

Fjr  a  moment  Maggie's  heart  throbbed  with  delight  at  (he 
thought  of  hearing  from  him,  even  though  she  heard  that  ho 
would  leave  her.  But  anon  her  pride  rose  strong  within  her. 
She  had  told  Hagar  twice  of  her  destination,  Hagar  had  told 
him,  and  if  he  chose  he  would  have  followed  her  ere  this ;  so 


480  MAGGIE    MILLER. 

somewhat  bitterly  she  said,  "Don't  speak  to  George_of  me 
Don't  tell  him  I  am  here.     Promise  me,  will  yon  ?" 

The  promise  was  given,  and  the  next  morning,  which  wag 
Saturday,  Henry  started  for  Worcester  on  the  early  train, 
The  day  seemed  long  to  Maggie,  and  when  at  nightfall  he 
came  to  them  again,  it  was  difficult  to  tell  which  was  the 
more  pleased  at  his  return,  Margaret  or  Rose. 

"  Did  you  see  Theo  ?"  asked  the  former  ;  and  Henry  re 
plied,  "  George  told  me  she  had  gone  to  Hillsdale.  Madam 
Conway  is  very  sick." 

"  For  me  1  for  me  !  She's  sick  with  mourning  for  me," 
cried  Maggie.  "  Darling  grandma  !  she  does  love  me  still, 
and  I  will  go  home  to  her  at  once." 

Then  the  painful  thought  rushed  over  her,  "  If  she  wished 
for  me,  she  would  send.  It's  the  humiliation,  not  the  love, 
that  makes  her  sick.  They  have  cast  me  off — grandma, 
Theo,  all,  all,"  and  sinking  upon  the  lounge,  she  wept  aloud. 

"  Margaret,"  said  Henry,  coming  to  her  side,  "  but  for 
my  promise  I  should  have  talked  to  George  of  you,  for 
there  was  a  troubled  expression  on  his  face  when  he  asked 
me  if  I  had  heard  from  Hillsdale." 

"  What  did  you  say  ?"  asked  Maggie,  holding  her  breath 
to  catch  the  answer,  which  was,  "  I  told  him  you  had  not 
written  to  me  since  my  return  from  Cuba,  and  then  he 
looked  as  if  he  would  say  more,  but  a  customer  called  him 
away,  and  our  conversation  was  not  resumed." 

For  a  moment  Maggie  was  silent.  Then  she  said,  "  I  am 
glad  you  did  not  intrude  me  upon  him.  If  Theo  has  gone 
to  Hillsdale,  she  knows  that  I  am  here,  and  does  not  care  to 
follow  me.  It  is  the  disgrace  which  troubles  them,  not  the 
losing  me  1"  and  again  burying  her  head  in  the  cushions  of 
the  lounge,  she  wept  bitterly.  It  was  useless  for  Henry  and 
Rose  to  try  to  comfort  her,  telling  her  it  was  possible  that 


THF,    SISTERS.  4*1 

Hagar  had  told  nothing;  "And  if  so,"  said  Henry,  "you 
will  know  that  I  am  the  last  one  to  whom  you  would  be 
expected  to  flee  for  protection."  Margaret  would  not  listen. 
She  was  resolved  upon  being  unhappy,  and  during  the  long 
houra  of  that  night  she  tossed  wakefully  upon  her  pillow, 
aud  when  the  morning  came  she  was  too  weak  to  rise  ;  so 
she  kept  her  room,  listening  to  the  music  of  the  Sabbath 
bells,  which  to  her  seemed  sadly  saying,  "  Home,  home." 
"  Alas,  I  have  no  home,"  she  said,  turning  away  to  weep,  tor 
in  the  tolling  of  those  bells  there  came  to  her  no  voice, 
whispering  of  the  darkness,  the  desolation,  and  the  sorrow 
there  was  in  the  home  for  which  she  so  much  mourned. 

Thus  the  day  wore  on,  and  ere  another  week  was  gone, 
Eose  insisted  upon  a  speedy  removal  to  the  sea-shore,  not* 
withstanding  it  was  so  early  in  the  season,  for  by  this  means 
she  hoped  that  Maggie's  health  would  be  improved.  Ac 
cordingly,  Henry  went  once  more  to  Worcester,  ostensibly 
for  money,  but  really  to  see  if  George  Douglas  now  would 
speak  to  him  of  Margaret.  But  George  was  in  New  York, 
they  said  ;  and  somewhat  disappointed,  Henry  went  back  to 
Leominster,  where  everything  was  in  readiness  for  their 
journey.  Monday  was  fixed  upon  for  their  departure,  and 
at  au  early  hour,  Margaret  looked  back  on  what  had 
been  to  her  a  second  home,  smiling  faintly  as  Rose  whis 
pered  to  her  cheerily,  "  I  have  a  strong  presentiment  that 
somewhere  in  our  travels  we  shall  meet  with  Arthur  Carioli- 
ton" 


(31  MAGGIE    M1LLEJL 


CHAPTER    XXII. 

THE     HOUSE     OF    MOURNING. 

now  over  the  bills  to  the  westward.  Come  to  the 
Hillsdale  woods,  to  the  stone  house  by  the  mill,  where  all 
the  day  long  there  is  heard  but  one  name,  the  servants 
breathing  it  softly  aud  low,  as  if  she  who  had  borne  it  were 
dead,  the  sister,  dim-eyed  now,  and  paler  faced,  whispering 
it  oft  to  herself,  while  the  lady,  so  haughty  and  proud,  re 
peats  it  again  and  again,  shuddering  as  naught  but  the 
echoing  walls  reply  to  the  heart-broken  cry  of  "  Margaret, 
Margaret,  where  are  you  now  ?" 

Yes,  there  was  mourning  in  that  household — mourning 
for  the  lost  one,  the  darling,  the  pet  of  them  all. 

Brightly  had  the  sun  arisen  on  that  June  morning  which 
brought  to  them  their  sorrow,  while  the  birds  in  the  tall 
forest  tress  carolled  as  gaily  as  if  no  storm  cloud  were  hov 
ering  near.  At  an  early  hour  Mr.  Carrollton  had  arisen, 
thinking,  as  he  looked  forth  from  his  window,  "  She  will 
tell  me  all  to-day,"  and  smiling  as  he  thought  how  easy  and 
pleasant  would  be  the  task  of  winning  her  back  to  her  olden 
gaiety.  Madam  Conway,  too,  was  unusually  excited  and 
very  anxiously  she  listened  for  the  first  sound  of  Maggie's 
footsteps  on  the  stairs. 

"  She  sleeps  late,"  she  thought,  when  breakfist  was 
announced,  and  taking  her  accustom3d  seat,  she  baie  a 
servant  "  see  if  Margaret  were  ill." 


THE    HOUSE    OF    MOURNING.  433 

"  She  is  not  there,"  was  the  report  the  girl  brought  back 

"  Not  there  !"  cried  Mr.  Carrollton. 

"  Not  there  !"  repeated  Madam  Conway,  a  shadowy  fore 
boding  of  evil  stealing  over  her.  "  She  seldom  walks  at 
this  early  hour,"  she  continued,  and  rising  she  went  hersell, 
to  Margaret's  room. 

Everything  was  in  perfect  order,  the  bed  was  undisturbed, 
the  chamber  empty,  Margaret  was  gone,  and  on  the  dress 
ing-table  lay  the  fatal  letter,  telling  why  she  went.  Ai 
first  Madam  Conway  did  not  see  it ;  but  it  soon  caught  hei 
eye,  and  tremblingly  she  opened  it,  reading  but  the  first  line; 
"  I  am  going  away  forever." 

Then  a  loud  shriek  rang  through  the  silent  room,  pene 
trating  to  Arthur  Carrollton's  listening  ear,  and  bringing 
him  at  once  to  her  side.  With  the  letter  still  in  her  hand, 
and  her  face  of  a  deathly  hue,  and  her  eyes  flashing  with  fcar; 
Madam  Conway  turned  to  him  as  he  entered,  saying,  "  Mar 
garet  has  gone,  left  us  forever,  killed  herself  it  may  be — 
read  ;"  and  she  handed  him  the  letter,  herself  bending 
eagerly  forward,  to  hear  what  he  might  say. 

But  she  listened  in  vain.  With  lightning  rapidity, 
Arthur  Carrollton  read  what  Mag  had  written — read  that 
she,  his  idol,  the  chosen  bride  of  his  bosom,  was  the  daugh- 
ter  of  a  servant,  the  grandchild  of  old  Hagar  !  And  for 
this  she  had  fled  from  his  presence,  fled  because  she  knew  of 
the  mighty  pride  which  now,  in  the  first  bitter  moment  of  his 
agony,  did  indeed  rise  up  a  barrier  between  himself  and  the 
beautiful  girl  he  loved  so  well.  Had  she  lain  dead  before 
him,  dead  in  all  her  youthful  beauty,  he  could  have  folded  her 
in  his  arms,  and  then  buried  her  from  his  sight,  with  a  feel 
ing  of  perfect  happiness,  compared  to  that  which  he  now  felt 

"  Oh,  Maggie,  my  lost  one,  can  it  be  ?"  he  whispered  tc 
himself,  and  pressing  his  hand  upon  his  chest,  which  heaved 

19 


4S4  MAGGIE    MILLER. 

with  strong  emotion,  he  staggered  to  a  seat,  while  lh« 
perspiration  stood  iu  beaded  drops  upon  his  forehead,  and 
around  his  lips. 

"  What  is  it,  Mr.  Carrollton  ?  'Tis  something  dreadful, 
sure,"  said  Mrs.  Jeffrey,  appearing  in  the  door,  but  Madam 
Conway  motioned  her  away,  and  tottering  to  his  side,  said, 
11  Read  it  to  me — read." 

The  sound  of  her  voice  recalled  his  wandering  mind,  and 
covering  his  face  with  his  hands,  he  moaned  in  anguish  ; 
then,  growing  suddenly  calm,  he  snatched  up  the  letter, 
which  had  fallen  to  the  floor,  and  read  it  aloud  ;  while 
Madam  Conway,  stupefied  with  horror,  sank  at  his  feet,  and 
clasping  her  hands  above  her  head,  rocked  to  and  fro,  bnt 
made  no  word  of  comment.  Far  down  the  long  ago  her 
thoughts  were  straying,  and  gathering  up  many  by-gone 
scenes,  which  told  her  that  what  she  heard  was  true. 

"  Yes,  His  true,"  she  groaned;  and  then,  powerless  to  speak 
another  word,  she  laid  her  head  upon  a  chair,  while  Mr. 
Carrollton,  preferring  to  be  alone,  sought  the  solitude  of  his 
own  room,  where  unobserved  he  could  wrestle  with  his  sor 
row,  and  conquer  his  inborn  pride,  which  whispered  to  him 
that  a  Carrollton  must  not  wed  a  bride  so  far  beneath  him. 

Only  a  moment,  though,  and  then  the  love  he  bore  for 
Maggie  Miller  rolled  back  upon  him  with  an  overwhelming 
power,  while  his  better  judgment,  with  that  love,  came  hand 
in  hand,  pleading  for  the  fair  young  girl,  who,  now  that  ho 
had  lost  her,  seemed  a  thousand  fold  dearer  than  before. 
But  he  had  not  lost  her;  he  would  find  her.  She  was  Maggie 
Miller  still  to  him,  and  though  old  Ilagar's  blood  were  in 
her  veins,  he  wo&ld  not  give  her  up.  This  resolution  occo 
made,  it  could  not  be  shaken,  and  when  half  an  hour  or 
more  was  passed,  he  walked  with  firm,  unfaltering  footsteps, 
back  to  the  apartment  where  Madam  Conway  still  sat  upon 


THE    HOUSE    OF    MOUttJNiJNy.  481 

the  floor,  her  head  resting  upou  the  chair,  and  her  frame 
convulsed  with  grief. 

Her  struggle  had  been  a  terrible  one,  and  it  was  not  over 
yet,  for  with  her  it  was  more  than  a  matter  of  pride  and 
love.  Her  daughter's  rights  had  been  set  at  naught ;  a 
wrong  had  been  done  to  the  dead  ;  the  child  who  slept 
beneath  the  pine  had  been  neglected  ;  nay,  in  life,  had  been, 
perhaps,  despised  for  an  intruder,  for  one  who  had  no  right 
to  call  her  grandmother  ;  and  shudderingly  she  cried, 
"  Why  was  it  suffered  thus  to  be  ?"  Then  as  she  thought 
of  white-haired  Hagar  Warren,  she  raised  her  hand  to 
surse  her,  but  the  words  died  on  her  lips,  for  Hagar's  deed 
had  brought  to  her  much  joy  ;  and  now,  as  she  remembered 
the  bounding  step,  the  merry  langh,  the  sunny  face,  and 
loving  words,  which  had  made  her  later  years  so  happy,  she 
involuntarily  stretched  out  her  arms  in  empty  air,  moaning 
sadly,  "  I  want  her  here.  I  want  her  now,  just  as  she  used 
to  be."  Then,  over  the  grave  of  her  buried  daughter,  over 
the  grave  of  the  sickly  child,  whose  thin,  blue  face  came  up 
before  her,  just  as  it  lay  in  its  humble  coffin,  over  the  decep 
tion  of  eighteen  years,  her  heart  bounded  with  one  wild, 
yearning  throb,  for  every  bleeding  fibre  clung  with  a  death 
like  grasp  to  her,  who  had  been  so  suddenly  takon  from  her. 
"  I  love  her  still,"  she  cried,  "  but  can  I  take  her  back  ?" 
And  then  commenced  the  fiercest  struggle  of  all,  the  bat 
tling  of  love  and  pride,  the  one  rebelling  against  a  child  of 
Hagar  Warren,  and  the  other  clamoring  loudly,  that  with 
out  that  child  the  world  to  her  was  nothing.  It  was  the 
hour  of  Madam  Conway's  humiliation,  and  in  bitterness  of 
spirit,  she  groaned,  "  That  I  should  come  to  this  1  Theo 
fn-st,  and  Margaret,  my  bright,  my  beautiful  Margaret  next 
Oh,  how  can  I  give  her  up  when  I  loved  her,  best  of  all— 
boat  of  all  ?" 


48#  MAGGIE    MILLER. 

This  was  true,  for  all  the  deeper,  stronger  love  of  Madam 
Couway's  nature  had  gone  forth  to  the  merry,  gleeful  girl, 
whose  graceful,  independent  bearing  she  had  so  often  likened 
to  herself,  and  the  haughty  race  with  which  she  claimed  rela 
tionship.  How  was  this  illusion  dispelled  !  Margaret  was 
not  a  Conway,  nor  yet  a  Davenport.  A  servant  girl  had 
been  her  mother,  and  of  her  father  there  was  nothing  known 
Madam  Couway  was  one  who  seldom  wept  for  grief.  She  had 
stood  calmly  at  the  bedside  of  her  dying  husband,  had  bu 
ried  her  only  daughter  from  her  sight,  had  met  with  many 
reverses,  and  shed  for  all  no  tears,  but  now  they  fell  like 
rain  upon  her  face,  burning,  blistering  as  they  fell,  but 
bringing  no  relief. 

"  I  shall  miss  her  in  the  morning,"  she  cried,  "  miss  her 
at  noon,  miss  her  in  the  lonesome  nights,  miss  her  every 
where — oh,  Margaret,  Margaret,  'tis  more  than  I  can  bear  I 
Come  back  to  me  now,  just  as  you  are.  I  want  you  here — • 
here  where  the  pain  is  hardest,"  and  she  clasped  her  arms 
tightly  over  her  heaving  bosom.  Then  her  pride  returned 
again,  and  with  it  came  thoughts  of  Arthur  Carrollton. 
He  would  scoff  at  her  as  weak  and  sentimental ;  he  would 
never  take  beyond  the  sea  a  bride  of  Hagarish  birth  ;  and 
duty  demanded  that  she,  too,  should  be  firm,  and  sanction 
his  decision.  "  But  when  he's  gone,"  she  whispered,  "  when 
he  has  left  America  behind,  I'll  find  her,  if  my  life  is  spared. 
I'll  find  poor  Margaret,  and  see  that  she  does  not  want, 
though  I  must  not  take  her  back." 

This  resolution,  however,  did  not  bring  her  comfort,  and 
the  hands  pressed  so  convulsively  upon  her  side  could  not 
case  her  pain.  Sure,  never  before  had  so  dark  an  hour 
enfolded  that  haughty  woman,  and  a  prayer  that  she  might 
die  was  trembling  on  her  lips,  when  a  footfall  echoed  along 
the  hall,  and  Arthur  Carrollton  stood  before  her.  His  face 


THE    HOUSE    OF    MOURNING.  431 

was  very  pale,  bearing  marks  of  the  storm  he  had  passed 
through  ;  but  he  was  calm,  and  his  voice  was  natural  as  he 
said,  "P(6sibly  what  we  have  heard  is  false.  It  may  be  a 
vagary  of  Hagar's  half  crazed  brain." 

For  an  instant  Madam  Conway  had  hoped  so,  too  ;  but 
when  she  reflected,  she  knew  that  it  was  true.  Old  Ilagar 
had  been  very  minute  in  her  explanations  to  Margaret,  who 
in  turn  had  written  exactly  what  she  had  heard,  and  Madam 
Conway,  when  she  recalled  the  past,  could  have  no  doubt 
that  it  was  true.  She  remembered  everything,  but  more 
distinctly  the  change  of  dress,  at  the  time  of  the  baptism 
There  could  be  no  mistake.  Margaret  was  not  hers,  and  so 
she  said  to  Arthur  Carrollton,  turning  her  head  away  as  if 
she,  too,  were  in  some  way  answerable  for  the  disgrace. 

"  It  matters  not,"  he  replied,  "  whose  she  has  been.  She 
is  mine,  now,  and  if  you  feel  able,  we  will  consult  together 
as  to  the  surest  method  of  finding  her." 

A  sudden  faintness  came  over  Madam  Conway,  and  while 
the  expression  of  her  face  changed  to  one  of  joyful  surprise, 
she  stammered  out,  "  Can  it  be  I  hear  aright  ?  Do  I 
understand  you  ?  Are  you  willing  to  take  poor  Maggie 
back  ?" 

"  I  certainly  have  no  other  intention,"  he  answered. 
"  There  was  a  moment  the  memory  of  which  makes  me 
ashamed,  when  my  pride  rebelled  ;  but  it  is  over  now,  and 
Jiough  Maggie  cannot  in  reality  be  again  your  child,  she 
can  be  my  wife,  and  I  must  find  her." 

"  You  make  me  so  happy,  oh,  so  happy  !"  said  Madam 
Conway.  "  I  feared  you  would  cast  her  off,  and  in  that 
case  it  would  have  been  my  duty  to  do  so  too,  though 
I  never  loved  a  human  being,  as  at  this  moment  I  love 
her." 

Mr.  Carroll!  on  looked  as  if  he  did  not  fully  comprehend 


488  MAGGIE    MILLER. 

the  woman,  who  loving  Margaret  as  she  said  she  did,  could 
yet  be  so  dependent  upon  his  dicision  ;  but  he  made  no  com 
ment,  and  when  next  he  spoke  he  announced  his  intention 
of  calling  upon  Ilagar,  who  possibly  could  tell  him  where 
Margaret  had  gone.  "  At  all  events,"  said  he,  "  I  may 
ascertain  why  the  secret,  so  long  kept,  was  at  this  late  day 
divulged.  It  may  be  well,"  he  continued,  "  to  say  nothing 
to  the  servants  as  yet,  save  that  Maggie  has  gone.  Mrs. 
Jeffrey,  however,  had  better  be  let  into  the  secret  at  once. 
We  can  trust  her,  I  think." 

Madam  Conway  bowed,  and  Mr.  Carrolltou  left  the  room, 
starting  immediately  for  the  cottage  by  the  mine.  As  he 
approached  the  house,  he  saw  the  servant  who  for  several 
weeks  had  been  staying  there,  and  who  now  came  out  to 
meet  him,  telling  him  that  since  the  night  before,  Hagar  had 
been  raving  crazy,  talking  continually  of  Maggie,  who,  she 
said,  "  had  gone  where  none  would  ever  find  her." 

In  some  anxiety,  Mr.  Carrollton  pressed  on,  until  the  cot 
tage  door  was  reached,  where  for  a  moment  he  stood  gazing 
silently  upon  the  poor  woman  before  him.  Upon  the  bed, 
her  white  hair  falling  over  her  round,  bent  shoulders,  and 
her  large  eyes  shining  with  delirious  light,  old  Hagar  sat, 
weaving  back  and  forth,  and  talking  of  Margaret,  of  Hester, 
and  "  the  little  foolish  child,"  who,  with  a  sneer  upon  her 
lip,  she  said,  "  was  a  fair  specimen  of  the  Conway  race." 

"  Hagar,"  said  Mr.  Carrollton,  and  at  the  sound  of  that 
voice  Hagar  turned  toward  him  her  flashing  eyes,  then 
with  a  scream,  buried  her  head  in  the  bed-clothes,  saying, 
•'  Go  away,  Arthur  Carrollton  I  Why  are  you  here  ? 
Don't  you  know  who  I  am  ?  Don't  you  know  what  Marga 
ret  is,  and  don't  you  know  how  proud  you  are  ?" 

"  Hagar,"  he  said  again,  subduing,  by  a  strong  effort,  the 
repugnance  he  felt  at  questioning  her,  "  I  know  all,  except 


THE    HOUSE    OF    MOURNING.  48'.» 

where  Margaret  has  gone,  and  if  on  this  point  you  can  give 
me  any  information,  I  shall  receive  it  most  thankfully." 

"  Gone  !"  shrieked  Hagar,  starting  up  in  bed  ;  *'  then  she 
bis  gone.  The  play  is  played  out,  the  performance  is  ended, 
and  I  sinned  for  nothing  !" 

"  Hagar,  will  you  tell  me  where  Maggie  is  ?  I  wish  to 
follow  her,"  said  Mr.  Carrollton  ;  and  Hagar  answered, 
"  Maggie,  Maggie — he  said  that  lovingly  enough,  but 
there's  a  catch  somewhere.  He  does  not  wish  to  follow  her 
for  any  good — and  though  I  know  where  she  has  gone,  I'll 
surely  never  tell.  I  kept  one  secret  nineteen  years.  I  can 
keep  another  as  long  ;"  and  folding  her  arms  upon  her 
chest,  she  commenced  singing,  "  I  know  full  well,  but  I'll 
never  tell." 

Biting  his  lips  with  vexation,  Mr.  Carrollton  tried  first  by 
persuasion,  then  by  flattery,  and  lastly  by  threats,  to  obtain 
from  her  the  desired  information,  but  in  vain.  Her  only 
answer  was,  "  I  know  full  well,  but  I'll  never  tell,"  save 
once,  when  tossing  towards  him  her  long  white  hair,  she 
shrieked,  "  Don't  you  see  a  resemblance — only  hers  is  black 
— and  so  was  mine  nineteen  years  ago, — and  so  was  Hester's 
too — glossy  and  black  as  the  raven's  wing.  The  child  is 
like  the  mother — the  mother  was  like  the  grandmother,  and 
the  grandmother  is  like — me,  Hagar  Warren.  Do  you  un 
derstand  ?" 

Mr.  Carrollton  made  no  answer,  and  with  a  feeling  of 
disappointment  walked  away,  shuddering  as  he  thought, 
"  and  she  is  Margaret's  grandmother." 

He  found  Madam  Con  way  in  strong  hysterics  on  Marga 
ret's  bed,  for  she  had  refused  to  leave  the  room,  saying,  "  she 
would  die  there  or  nowhere."  Gradually  the  reality  of  her 
loss  had  burst  upon  her,  and  now  gasping,  choking,  and 
wringing  her  hands,  she  lay  upon  the  pillows,  while  Mrn 


440  MAGGIE    MILLER. 

Jeffrey ,  worked  up  to  a  pitch  of  great  nervous  excitement^ 
fidgeted  hither  and  thither,  doing  always  the  wrong  thing, 
fanning  the  lady  when  she  did  not  wish  to  be  fanned,  and 
ceasing  to  fan  her  just  when  she  was  "  dying  for  want  of  air." 

As  yet,  Mrs.  Jeffrey  knew  nothing  definite,  except  that 
something  dreadful  had  happened  to  Margaret  ;  but  very 
candidly  Mr.  Carrollton  told  her  all,  bidding  her  keep  silent 
on  the  subject  ;  then,  turning  to  Madam  Conway,  he  re 
peated  to  her  the  result  of  his  call  on  old  Hagar. 

"  The  wretch  1"  gasped  Madam  Conway,  while  Mrs.  Jef 
frey,  running  in  her  fright  from  the  window  to  the  door,  and 
from  the  door  back  to  the  window  again,  exclaimed,  "  Mar 
garet  not  a  Conway,  nor  yet  a  Davenport,  after  all  !  It  is 
just  what  I  expected.  I  always  knew  she  came  honestly  by 
those  low-bred  ways  I" 

"  Jeffrey,"  and  the  voice  of  the  hysterical  woman  on  the 
bed  was  loud  and  distinct,  as  she  grasped  the  arm  of 
the  terrified  little  governess,  who  chanced  to  be  within  her 
reach.  "  Jeffrey,"  either  leave  my  house  at  once,  or  speak 
more  deferentially  of  Miss  MiUer.  You  will  call  her  by  that 
name,  too.  It  matters  not  to  Mr.  Carrollton  and  myself 
whose  child  she  has  been.  She  is  ours  now,  and  must  be 
treated  with  respect.  Do  you  understand  me  ?" 

"  Yes,  ma'am,"  meekly  answered  Jeffrey,  rubbing  her 
clumpy  arm  which  bore  the  mark  of  a  thumb_and  finger,  and 
as  her  services  were  not  just  then  required  she  glided  from 
the  room  to  drown,  if  possible,  her  grievance  in  the  leather 
bound  London  edition  of  Baxter  ! 

Meanwhile,  Madam  Couway  was  consulting  with  Mr.  Car 
rollton  as  to  their  best  mode  of  finding  Margaret.  "  She 
took  the  cars,  of  course,"  said  Mr.  Carrollton,  adding  that 
"he  should  go  at  once  to  the  depot,  and  ascertain  which 
way  she  went.  If  I  do  not  return  to-night  you  need  not  b<> 


THE    HOUSE    OF    MOURNING.  44. 

alarmed,"  he  said,  as  he  was  leaving  tne  room,  whereupon 
Madam  Conway  called  him  back,  bidding  him  "  telegraph 
for  Theo  at  once,  as  she  must  have  some  one  with  her  be 
sides  that  vexatious  Jeffrey." 

Mr.  Carrollton  promised  compliance  with  her  request,  and 
then  went  immediately  to  the  depot,  where  he  learned  that 
no  one  had  entered  .the  cars  from  that  place  on  the  previous 
night,  and  that  Maggie,  if  she  took  the  train  at  all,  must 
have  done  so  at  some  other  station.  This  was  not  unlikely, 
and  before  the  day  was  passed,  Mr.  Carrollton  had  visited 
several  different  stations,  and  had  talked  with  the  conduc 
tors  of  the  several  trains,  but  all  to  no  purpose  ;  and  very 
much  disheartened,  he  returned  at  nightfall  to  the  old  stone 
house,  where  to  his  great  surprise,  he  found  both  Theo  and 
her  husband.  The  telegram  had  done  its  mission,  and  feel 
ing  anxious  to  know  the  worst,  George  had  come  up  with 
Theo  to  spend  the  night.  It  was  the  first  time  Madam  Con- 
way  had  seen  him  since  her  memorable  encounter  with  his 
rrother,  for  though  Theo  had  more  than  once  been  home,  he 
had  never  before  accompanied  her,  and  now  when  Madam 
Conway  heard  his  voice  in  the  hall  below,  she  groaned 
afresh.  The  sight  of  his  good-humored  face,  however,  Bad 
his  kind  offer  to  do  whatever  he  could  to  find  the  fugitive, 
restored  her  composure  in  a  measure,  and  she  partially  for 
got  that  he  was  in  any  way  connected  with  the  blue  umbrella, 
or  the  blue  umbrella  connected  with  him  !  Never  in  her 
life  had  Theo  felt  very  deeply  upon  any  subject,  and  now, 
though  she  seemed  bewildered  at  what  she  heard,  she  mani 
fested  no  particular  emotion,  until  her  grandmother,  wring 
ing  her  hands,  exclaimed,  "  You  have  no  sister  now,  my 
child,  and  I  no  Margaret."  Then,  indeed,  her  tears  flowed, 
and  when  her  husband  whispered  to  her,  "  We  will  love 
poor  Maggie  all  the  same,"  she  cried  aloul,  but  not  quite 

19* 


442  MAGGIE     MILLER. 

as  demonstratively  as  Madam  Couway  wished,  and  iu  a  rery 
unamiable  frame  of  mind,  the  old  lady  accused  her  of  being 
selfish  and  bard-hearted. 

In  this  stage  of  proceedings  Mr.  Carrollton  retarned, 
bringing  no  tidings  of  Maggie,  whereupon  another  fit  of 
hysterics  ensued,  and  as  Theo  behaved  much  worse  than 
Mrs.  Jeffi  ey  had  done,  the  latter  was  finally  summoned  again 
to  the  sick  room,  where  she  had  last  succeeded  in  quieting 
the  excited  woman.  The  next  morning  George  Douglas 
visited  old  Hagar,  but  he  too  was  unsuccessful/  and  that 
afternoon  he  returned  to  Worcester,  leaving  Theo  with  her 
grandmother,  who,  though  finding  fault  with  whatever  she 
did,  refused  to  let  her  go  until  Margaret  was  found. 

During  the  remainder  of  the  week,  Mr.  Carrollton  rode 
through  the  country,  making  the  most  minute  inquiries,  and 
receiving  always  the  same  discouraging  answer.  Once  he 
thought  to  advertise,  but  from  making  the  affair  thus  public 
he  instinctively  shrank,  and  resolving  to  spare  neither  his 
time,  his  money,  nor  his  health,  he  pursued  his  weary  way 
alone.  Once,  too,  Madam  Con  way  spoke  of  Henry  Warner, 
saying  it  was  possible  Maggie  might  have  gone  to  him,  as 
she  had  thought  so  much  of  Rose;  but  Mr.  Carrollton  "knew 
better."  "  A  discarded  lover,"  he  said,  "  was  the  last  person 
in  the  world  to  whom  a  young  girl  like  Margaret  would  go. 
particularly  as  Theo  had  said  taat  Henry  was  now  the  hus 
band  of  another." 

Still  the  suggestion  haunted  him,  and  on  the  Monday 
following  Henry  Warner's  first  visit  to  Worcester,  he,  too. 
went  down  to  talk  with  Mr.  Douglas,  asking  him,  "  if  it  were 
possible  that  Maggie  was  in  Leomiuster." 

"  I  know  she  is  not,"  said  G-eorgo,  repeating  the  particu 
lars  of  his  interview  with  Henry,  who,  lie  said,  was  at  the 
store  on  Saturday.  "  Once  I  thought  of  telling  him  all/ 


THE    HOUSE    JF    MOURNING.  t4i 

Baid  he,  "  and  then  considering  the  relations  which  formerly 
existed  between  them,  I  concluded  to  keep  silent,  especially 
as  he  manifested  no  desire  to  speak  of  her,  bat  appeared,  I 
fancied,  quite  uneasy  when  I  casually  mentioned  Hillsdale." 

Thus  was  that  matter  decided,  and  while  not  many  milea 
away,  Maggie  was  watching  hopelessly  for  the  coming  of 
Arthur  Carrollton,  he,  with  George  Douglas,  was  devising 
the  best  means  for  finding  her,  George  generously  offering 
to  assist  in  the  search,  and  suggesting  finally  that  he  should 
himself  go  to  New  York  city,  while  Mr.  Carrollton  explored 
Boston  and  its  vicinity.  It  seemed  quite  probable  that 
Margaret  would  seek  some  of  the  large  cities,  as  in  her  letter 
she  had  said  she  could  earn  her  livelihood  by  teaching  music; 
and  quite  hopeful  of  success,  the  young  men  parted,  Mr. 
Carrolltou  going  immediately  to  Boston,  while  Mr.  Douglas, 
after  a  day  or  two,  started  for  New  York,  whither,  as  the 
reader  will  remember,  he  had  gone  at  the  time  of  Henry's 
last  visit  to  Worcester. 

Here,  for  a  time  we  leave  them,  Hagar  raving  mad, 
Madam  Conway  in  strong  hysterics,  Theo  wishing  herself 
anywhere  but  at  Hillsdale,  Mrs.  Jeffrey  ditto,  Georgo 
Douglas  threading  the  crowded  streets  of  the  noisy  city, 
and  Mr.  Carrolltou  in  Boston,  growing  paler  and  sadder  as 
day  after  day  passed  by,  bringing  him  no  trace  of  the  lost 
one.  Here,  I  say,  we  leave  them,  while  in  another  chapter 
we  follow  the  footsteps  of  her  for  whom  this  search  was 
made. 


H4  MAGGIE    MILLEK. 


CHAPTER     XXIII. 

NIAGARA. 

FROM  the  seaside  to  the  mountains,  from  the  mountain! 

to  Saratoga,  from  Saratoga  to  Montreal,  from  Montreal  to 
the  Thousand  Isles,  and  thence  they  scarce  knew  where,  the 
travellers  wended  their  way,  stopping  not  long  at  any  place, 
for  Margaret  was  ever  seeking  change.  Greatly  had  she 
been  admired,  her  pale,  beautiful  face  attracting  attention  at 
once ;  but  from  all  flattery  she  turned  away,  saying  to  Hen 
ry  and  Rose,  "  Let  us  go  on." 

So,  onward  still  onward  they  went,  pausing  longest  at 
Montreal,  for  it  was  there  Arthur  Carrollton  had  been,  there 
a  part  of  his  possessions  lay,  and  there  Margaret  willingly  lin 
gered,  even  after  her  companions  wished  to  be  gone. 

"  He  may  be  here  again,"  she  said  ;  and  so  she  waited  and 
watched,  scanning  eagerly  the  passers  by,  and  noticing  each 
new  face  as  it  appeared  at  the  table  of  the  hotel,  where  they 
were  staying.  But  the  one  she  waited  for  never  came,  "  and 
even  if  he  docs,"  she  thought,  "  he  will  not  come  for  me." 

So  she  signified  her  willingness  to  depart,  and  early  one 
bright  July  morning,  she  left,  while  the  singing  birds 
from  the  tree  tops,  the  summer  air  from  the  Canada  hills, 
and,  more  than  all,  a  warning  voice  within  her,  bade  her, 
"  Tarry  yet  a  little,  stay  till  the  sun  was  set,"  for  far  out  in 
the  country  and  many  miles  away  a  train  was  thundering  on 


NIAGARA.  44e 

It  would  reach  the  city  at  nightfall,  and  among  its  jaded  pas 
sengers,  was  a  worn  and  weary  man.  Hopeless,  almost  aim- 
less  now,  he  would  come,  and  why  he  came  he  scarcely 
knew.  "  She  would  not  be  there  so  far  from  home,"  he 
was  sure  of  that,  but  he  was  coming  for  the  sake  of 
what  he  hoped  and  feared,  when  last  he  trod  those  streets 
Listlessly  he  entered  the  same  hotel,  from  whose  windows, 
for  five' long  days,  a  fair  young  face  had  looked- for  him. 
Listlessly  he  registered  his  name,  then  carelessly  turned  the 
leaves  backward— backward— backward  still,  till  only  one 
remained  between  his  hand  and  the  page  bearing  date  five 
days  before.  He  paused  and  was  about  to  move  away, 
when  a  sudden  breeze  from  the  open  window  turned  the 
remaining  leaf,  and  his  eye  caught  the  name,  not  of  Maggu 
Miller,  but  of  "  Henry  -Warner,  lady,  and  sister." 

"  Thus  it  stood,  and  thus  he  repeated  it  to  himself,  dwell, 
ing  upon  the  last  words  sister,  as  if  to  him  it  had  another 
meaning.  He  had  heard  from  Madam  Conway,  that  neither 
Henry  Warner  nor  Rose  had  a  sister,  but  she  might  be 
mistaken  ;  probably  she  was,  and  dismissing  the  subject 
from  his  mind,  he  walked  away.  Still  the  names  haunted 
him,  and  thinking  at  List,  that  if  Mr.  Warner  were  now  in 
Montreal,  he  would  like  to  see  him,  he  returned  to  the 
office,  asking  the  clerk  if  the  occupants  of  Nos.  —  were 
there  still. 

"  Left  this  morning  for  the  Falls,"  was  the  laconic  answer, 
and  without  knowing  why  he  should  particularly  wish  to  dc 
so,  Mr.  Carrollton  resolved  to  follow  them. 

He  would  as  soon  be  at  the  Falls  as  at  Montreal,  he 
thought.  Accordingly  he  left  the  next  morning  for  Niagara, 
taking  the  shortest  route  by  river  and  lake,  and  arriving 
there  on  the  evening  of  the  second  day  after  his  departure 
from  the  city.  But  nowhere  could  a  trace  be  found  of  Heu 


446  MAGGIE    MILLER. 

ry  Warner,  and  determining  now  to  wait  until  he  2ame, 
Mr.  Carrollton  took  rooms  at  the  International,  where  aftei 
a  day  or  two,  worn  out  with  travel,  excitement  and  hope 
deferred,  he  became  severely  indisposed,  and  took  his  bed, 
forgetting  entirely  both  Henry  Warner  and  the  sister, 
whose  name  he  had  seen  upon  the  hotel  register.  Thoughts 
of  Maggie  Miller,  however,  were  constantly  in  his  mind,  and 
whether  waking  or  asleep,  he  saw  always  her  face,  some 
times  radiant  with  healthful  beauty,  as  when  he  first  beheld 
her,  and  again,  pale,  troubled,  and  sad,  as  when  he  saw  her 
last. 

"  Oh,  shall  I  ever  find  her  ?"  he  would  sometimes  say,  as 
in  the  dim  twilight  he  lay  listening  to  the  noisy  hum  which 
came  up 'from  the  public  room  below. 

And  once,  as  he  lay  there  thus,  he  dreamed,  and  in  his 
dreams  there  came  through  the  open  window  a  clear,  silvery 
voice,  breathing  the  loved  name  of  Maggie.  Again  he 
heard  it  on  the  stairs,  then  little  tripping  feet  went  past  his 
door,  followed  by  a  slow,  languid  tread,  and  with  a 'nervous 
start,  the  sick  man  awoke.  The  day  had  been  cloudy  and 
dark,  but  the  rain  was  over  now,  and  the  room  was  full  of 
sunshine — sunshine  dancing  on  the  walls,  sunshine  glimmer 
ing  on  the  floor,  sunshine  everywhere.  Insensibly,  too,  there 
stole  over  Mr.  Carrollton's  senses  a  feeling  of  quiet,  of  rest, 
and  he  slept  ere  long  again,  dreaming  this  time  that  Mar 
garet  was  there. 

Yes,  Margaret  was  there — there,  beneath  the  same  roof 
which  sheltered  him,  and  the  same  sunshine  which  filled  hia 
room  with  light  had  bathed  her  white  brow,  as  leaning  from 
her  window,  she  listened  for  the  roar  of  the  falling  water. 
They  had  lingered  on  their  way,  stopping  at  the  Thousand 
Isles,  for  Margaret  would  have  it  so  ;  but  they  had  come  at 
last,  and  the  tripping  footsteps  in  the  hall,  the  silvery  voice 


NIAGARA.  447 

npon  the  stairs,  was  that  of  the  golden  haired  Rose,  who 
watched  over  Margaret  with  all  a  sister's  love  and  a  mother's 
care.  The  frequent  jokes  of  the  fun-loving  Henry,  too, 
were  not  without  their  good  effects,  and  Margaret  was  bet 
ter  now  than  she  had  been  for  many  weeks. 

"  I  can  rest  here,"  she  said,  and  a  faint  color  came  to  her 
cheeks,  making  her  look  more  like  herself  than  she  had  done 
before  since  that  night  of  sorrow  in  the  woods. 

And  so  three  days  went  by,  and  Mr.  Carrollton,  on  his 
weary  bed,  dreamed  not  that  the  slender  form,  which  some 
times  through  his  half  closed  door,  cast  a  shadow  in  his 
room,  was  that  of  her  for  whom  he  sought.  The  tripping 
footsteps,  too,  went  often  by,  and  a  merry,  childish  voice, 
which  reminded  him  of  Maggie,  rang  through  the  spacious 
halls,  until  at  last  the  sick  man  came  to  listen  for  that  party 
as  they  passed.  They  were  a  merry  party,  he  thought,  a 
very  merry  party,  and  he  pictured  to  himself  her  of  the 
ringing  voice  ;  she  was  dark  eyed,  he  said,  with  braids  of 
shining  hair,  and  when,  as  they  were  passing  once,  he  asked 
of  his  attendant  if  it  were  not  as  he  had  fancied,  he  felt  a 
pang  of  disappointment  at  the  answer  which  was,  "The 
girl  the  young  gentleman  hears  so  much,  has  yellow  curls 
and  dark  blue  eyes." 

"  She  is  not  like  Maggie,  then,"  he  sighed,  and  when 
again  he  heard  that  voice,  a  part  of  its  music  was  gone. 
Still  it  cheered  his  solitude,  and  he  listened  for  it  again,  just 
as  he  had  done  before. 

Once,  when  he  knew  they  were  going  out,  he  went  to  the 
window  to  see  them,  but  the  large  straw  flats  and  close 
carriage  revealed  no  secret,  and  disappointed  he  turned 
away. 

"  It  is  useless  to  stay  here  longer,"  he  said  ;  "  I  must  bo 
about  my  work.  I  am  able  to  leave,  and  I  will  go  to-mor 


448  MAGGIE    MILLER. 

row.     But  first  I  will  visit  the  Falls  once  more.     I 
never  see  them  again." 

Accordingly,  next  morning,  after  Margaret  and  Rose  had 
left  the  house,  he  came  down  the  stairs,  sprang  into  an  open 
carriage,  and  was  driven  to  Goat  Island,  which,  until  hia 
illness,  had  been  his  favorite  resort. 

****** 

Beneath  the  tall  forest  trees  which  grow  upon  the  island 
there  is  a  rustic  seat.  Just  on  the  brink  of  the  river  it 
stands,  and  the  carriage  road  winds  by.  It  is  a  compara 
tively  retired  spot,  looking  out  upon  the  foaming  water  rush 
ing  so  madly  on.  Here  the  weary  often  rest ;  here  lovers 
sometimes  come  to  be  alone  ;  and  here  Maggie  Miller  sat 
on  that  summer  morning,  living  over  again  the  past,  which 
to  her  had  been  so  bright,  and  musing  sadly  of  the  future, 
which  would  bring  her  she  knew  not  what. 

She  had  struggled  to  overcome  her  pride,  nor  deemed  it 
longer  a  disgrace  that  she  was  not  a  Couvvay.  Of  Hagar, 
too,  she  often  thought,  pitying  the  poor  old  half-crazed 
woman  who  for  her  sake  had  borne  so  much.  But  not  of  her 
was  she  thinking  now.  Hagar  was  shrivelled  and  bent, 
and  old,  while  the  image  present  in  Margaret's  mind  was 
handsome,  erect  and  young,  like  the  gentleman  riding  ly — 
the  man  whose  carriage  wheels,  grinding  into  the  gravelly 
road,  attracted  no  attention.  Too  intent  was  she  upon  a 
shadow  to  heed  aught  else  around,  and  she  leaned  against  a 
tree,  nor  turned  her  head  aside,  as  Arthur  Carroll  ton  went 
by! 

A  little  further  on,  and  out  of  Maggie's  sight,  a  fairy  Gg» 
are  was  seated  upon  the  grass  ;  the  flat  was  thrown  aside, 
and  her  curls  fell  back  from  her  upturned  face,  as  she  spoke 
to  Henry  Warner.  But  the  sentence  was  unfinished,  for 
the  carriage  appeared  in  view,  and  with  woman's  quick 


NIAGARA.  44* 

perception,    Rose   exclaims,   "'Tis   surely   Arthur   Carroll* 
ton  I" 

Starting  to  her  feet,  she  sprang  involuntarily  forward  to 
meet  him,  casting  a  rapid  glance  around  for  Margaret.  He 
observed  the  movement,  and  knew  that  somewhere  in  Hie 
world  he  had  seen  that  face  before — those  golden  curls-  - 
those  deep  blue  eyes — that  childish  form — they  were  nnt 
wholly  unfamiliar.  Who  was  she,  and  why  did  she  advance 
towards  him  ? 

"  Rose,"  said  Henry,  who  would  call  her  back,  "  Rose  !" 
and  looking  towards  the  speaker,  Mr.  Carrollton  knew  at 
once  that  Henry  Warner  and  his  bride  were  standing 
there  before  him. 

In  a  moment  he  had  joined  them,  and  though  he  knew 
that  Henry  Warner  had  once  loved  Maggie  Miller,  he  spoko 
of  her  without  reserve,  saying  to  Rose,  when  she  asked  if 
he  were  there  for  pleasure,  "  I  am  looking  for  Maggie  Miller. 
A  strange  discovery  has  been  made  of  late,  and  Margaret 
has  left  us." 

"  She  is  here. — here  with  us,"  cried  Rose  ;  and  in  tne 
exuberance  of  her  joy,  she  was  darting  away,  when  Henry 
held  her  back  until  further  explanations  were  made. 

This  did  not  occupy  them  long,  for  sitting  down  again  upon 
the  bank,  Rose  briefly  told  him  all  she  knew  ;  and  when 
with  eager  joy  he  asked  "  where  is  she  now  ?"  she  pointed 
towards  the  spot,  and  then  with  Henry  walked  away,  for  she 
knew  that  it  was  not  for  her  to  witness  that  glad  meeting. 

The  river  rolls  on  with  its  heaving  swell,  and  the  white 
foam  is  tossed  towards  the  shore,  while  the  soft  summer  air 
»>'<£_  bears  on  its  wing  the  sound  of  the  cataract's  roar. 
But  Margaret  sees  it  not,  hears  it  not.  There  is  a  spell 
npon  her  now — a  halo  of  joy,  and  she  only  knows  that  a 
strong  arm  is  around  her,  and  a  voice  is  in  her  ear,  whisper- 


400  MAGGIE    MILLER. 

ing  that  the  bosom  on  which  her  weary  head  is  pillowed 
shall  be  her  resting-place  forever. 

It  had  come  to  her  suddenly,  sitting  there  thus-  -the  foot 
fall  upon  the  sand  had  not  been  heard — the  shadow  upou 
the  grass  had  not  been  seen,  and  his  presence  had  not  been 
felt,  till  bending  low,  Mr.  Carrollton  said  aloud,  "  My  Mag 
gie  !" 

Then  indeed  she  started  up,  and  turned  to  see  who  it  was 
that  thus  so  much  like  him  had  called  her  name.  She  saw 
\s"ho  it  was,  and  looking  in  his  face,  she  knew  she  was  not 
hated,  and  with  a  moaning  cry  went  forward  to  the  arma 
extended  to  receive  her. 


Four  guests,  instead  of  one,  went  forth  that  afternoon 
from  the  International — four  guests  homeward  bound,  and 
eager  to  be  there.  No  more  journeying  now  for  happiness  ; 
no  more  searching  for  the  lost  ;  for  both  are  found  ;  both 
Bpfi  there — happiuess  and  Maggie  Miller. 


HOMS.  451 


CHAPTER    XXIV. 

HOME. 

IMPATIENT,  restless  and  cross,  Madam  Convvay  lay  in  Mar 
garet's  room,  scolding  Theo,  and  chiding  Mrs.  Jeffrey;  both 
of  whom,  though  trying  their  utmost  to  suit  her,  managed 
Unfortunately  to  do  always  just  what  she  wished  them  not 
to  do.  Mrs.  Jeffrey's  hands  were  usually  too  cold,  while 
Thco's  were  too  hot.  Mrs.  Jeffrey  made  the  head  of  the 
bed  too  high.  Theo  altogether  too  low.  IQ  short,  neither 
of  them  ever  did  what  Margaret  would  have  done  had  she 
been  there,  and  so  day  after  day  the  lady  complained,  grow 
ing  more  and  more  unamiable,  until  at  last  Theo  began  to 
talk  seriously  of  following  Margaret's  example,  and  running 
away  herself,  at  least  as  far  as  Worcester  ;  but  the  dis 
tressed  Mrs.  Jeffrey,  terrified  at  the  thoughts  of  being  left 
there  alone,  begged  of  her  to  stay  a  little  longer,  offering 
the  comforting  assurance  that  "  it  could  not  be  so  bad 
always,  for  Madam  Conway  would  either  get  better — or 
something." 

So  Theo  staid,  enduring  with  a  martyr's  patience  the  ca 
prices  of  her  grandmother,  who  kept  the  whole  household  iu 
a  constant  state  of  excitement,  and  who  at  last  began  to 
blame  George  Douglas  entirely  as  being  the  only  one  in 
fault.  "  He  didn't  half  look,"  she  said,  "  and  she  doubted 
whether  he  knew  enough  to  keep  from  losing  himself  in  New 


4^2  MAGGIS    MILLER. 

York.  It  was  the  most  foolish  thing  Arthur  Carrollton  had 
ever  done,  hiring  George  Douglas  to  search  1" 

"  Hiring  him,  grandma  1"  cried  Theo,  "  George  offered  his 
services  for  nothing,"  and  the  tears  came  to  her  eyes  at  this 
injustice  done  to  her  husband. 

But  Madam  Conway  persisted  in  being  unreasonable,  and 
matters  grew  gradually  worse  until  the  day  when  Margaret 
was  found  at  the  Fails  On  that  morning  Madam  Conway 
determined  upon  riding — "  fresh  air  would  do  her  good," 
ehe  said,  "  and  they  had  kept  her  in  a  hot  chamber  long 
enngh." 

Accordingly,  the  carriage  was  brought  out,  and  Madam 
Conway  carefully  lifted  in  ;  but  ere  fifty  rods  were  passed, 
the  coachman  was  ordered  to  drive  back,  as  "  she  could  not 
endure  the  jolt — she  told  them  she  couldn't  all  the  time," 
and  her  eyes  turned  reprovingly  upon  poor  Theo,  sitting  si 
lently  in  the  opposite  corner. 

"  The  Lord  help  me,  if  she  isn't  coming  back,  so  soon," 
sighed  Mrs.  Jeffrey,  as  she  saw  the  carriage  returning,  and 
went  to  meet  the  invalid  who  had  "  taken  her  death  cold," 
just  as  she  knew  she  should,  when  they  insisted  upon  her 
going  out. 

That  day  was  far  worse  than  any  which  had  preceded 
it.  It  was  probably  her  last,  Madam  Conway  said,  and 
numerous  were  the  charges  she  gave  to  Theo  concern 
ing  Margaret,  should  she  ever  be  found.  The  house,  the 
farm,  the  furniture  and  plate,  were  all  to  be  hers,  while 
to  Theo  was  given  the  lady's  wardrobe,  saving  such  articles 
as  Margaret  might  choose  for  herself,  and  if  she  never  were 
found,  the  house  and  farm  were  to  be  Mr.  Carrollton's.  This 
was  too  much  for  Theo,  who  resolved  to  go  home  on  the 
morrow  at  all  hazards,  and  she  had  commenced  making  pre 
parations  for  leaving,  when  to  her  great  joy  her  husband 


HOME.  4B( 

caine,  and  iu  recounting  to  him  her  trials,  she  forgot  in  a 
measure  how  unhappy  she  had  been.  George  Douglas  waa 
vastly  amused  at  what  he  heard  and  resolved  to  experiment 
a  little  with  the  lady,  who  was  so  weak  as  to  notice  him 
only  with  a  slight  nod  when  he  first  entered  the  room.  He 
saw  at  a  glance  that  nothing  in  particular  was  the  matter, 
and  when  towards  night  she  lay  panting  for  breath,  with 
her  eyes  half  closed,  he  approached  her  and  said  :  "  Madam, 
in  case  you  die  " 

"  In  case  I  die,"  she  whispered  indignantly.  "  It  doesn't 
admit  of  a  doubt.  My  feet  are  as  cold  as  icicles  now." 

"  Certainly,"  said  he.  "  I  beg  your  pardon  ;  of  course 
you'll  die." 

The  lady  turned  away  rather  defiantly  for  a  dying  woman, 
and  G  eorge  continued :  "  What  I  mean  to  say  is  this — if 
Margaret  is  never  found,  you  wish  the  house  to  be  Mr. 
Carrolltou's  ?" 

"  Yes,  everything,  my  wardrobe  and  all,"  came  from  be 
neath  the  bedclothes,  and  George  proceeded  :  "  Mr.  Car- 
rollton  cannot  of  course  take  the  house  to  England,  and  aa 
he  will  need  a  trusty  tenant,  would  you  object  greatly,  if 
my  father  and  mother  should  come  here  to  live  ?  They'd 
like  it,  I  " 

The  sentence  was  unfinished — the  bunches  in  the  throat, 
which  for  hours  had  prevented  the  sick  woman  from  speak 
ing  aloud,  and  were  eventually  to  choke  her  to  death,  disap 
peared  ;  Madam  Conway  found  her  voice,  and  starting  up, 
screamed  out,  "  That  abominable  woman  and  heathenish 
gill  in  this  house,  in  my  house  ;  I'll  live  forever,  first  1"  and 
her  round  bright  eyes  flashed  forth  their  indignation. 

'•  I  thought  the  mention  of  mother  would  revive  her,"  said 
George,  aside  to  Theo,  who,  convulsed  with  laughter,  had 
hidden  herself  behind  the  window  curtatu. 


«84  MAGGIE    MILLER. 

Mr.  Douglas  was  right,  for  not  again  that  afternoon  did 
Madarn  Conway  speak  of  dying,  though  she  kept  her  bed 
until  night-fall,  when  an  incident  occurred  which  brought 
her  at  once  to  her  feet,  making  her  forget  that  she  had  ever 
been  otherwise  than  well. 

In  'her  cottage  by  the  mine,  old  Hagar  had  raved,  and 
sung,  and  wept,  talking  much  of  Margaret,  but  never  tell 
ing  whither  she  had  gone.  Latterly,  however,  she  had 
grown  more  calm,  talking  far  less  than  heretofore,  and 
sleeping  a  great  portion  of  the  day,  so  that  the  servant 
who  attended  her  became  neglectful,  leaving  her  many 
hours  alone,  while  she,  at  the  stone  house,  passed  her  time 
more  agreeably  than  at  the  lonesome  hut.  On  the  after 
noon  of  which  we  write,  she  was  as  usual  at  the  house,  and 
though  the  sun  went  down,  she  did  not  hasten  back,  for  her 
patient,  she  said,  was  sure  to  sleep,  and  even  if  she  woke 
she  did  not  need  much  care. 

Meantime  old  Hagar  slumbered  on.  It  was  a  deep, 
refreshing  sleep,  and  when  at  last  she  did  awake,  her  reason 
was  in  a  measure  restored,  arid  she  remembered  everything 
distinctly,  tip  to  the  time  of  Margaret's  last  visit,  when  she 
said  she  was  going  away.  And  Margaret  had  gone  away, 
she  was  sure  of  that,  for  she  remembered  Arthur  Carrollton 
stood  once  within  that  room,  and  besought  of  her  to  tell  if 
she  knew  aught  of  Maggie's  destination.  She  did  know, 
but  she  had  not  told,  and  perhaps  they  had  not  found  her 
yet.  .Raising  herself  in  bed,  she  called  aloud  to  the  servant, 
but  there  came  no  answer  ;  and  for  an  hour  or  more,  sho 
waited  impatiently,  growing  each  moment  more  and  more 
excited.  If  Margaret  were  found  she  wished  to  know  it, 
and  if  she  were  not  found,  it  was  surely  her  duty  to  go  at 
once,  and  tell  them  where  she  was.  But  could  she  walk  ? 
She  stepped  upon  the  floor  and  tried.  Her  limbs  trembled 


HOME.  451 

beneath  her  weight,  and  sinking  into  a  chair,  soe  cr'ed,  "I 
can't,  I  can't." 

Half  an  hour  later,  she  heard  the  sound  of  wheels.  A 
neighboring  farmer  was  returning  home  from  Richland.  and 
had  taken  the  cross  road  as  his  shortest  route.  "  Perhaps 
he  will  let  me  ride,"  she  thought,  and  hobbling  to  the  cisor, 
she  called  after  him,  making  known  her  request.  Wonder 
ing  what  "  new  freak  "  had  entered  her  mind,  the  man  con 
sented,  and  just  as  it  was  growing  dark,  he  set  her  do^n  at 
Madam  Conway's  gate,  where,  half  fearfully,  the  bewildered 
tvoman  gazed  around.  The  windows  of  Margaret's  room  were 
open,  a  figure  moved  before  them,  Margaret  might  be  ^ore, 
and  entering  the  hall  door  unobserved,  she  began  to 
the  stairs,  crawling  upon  her  hands  and  knees,  and  P 
several  times  to  rest. 

It  was  nearly  dark  in  the  sick-room,  and  as  Mr*.  Jeffrey 
had  just  gone  out,  and  Theo,  in  the  parlor  below,  was  a";oy. 
ing  a  quiet  talk  with  her  husband,  Madam  Conwav  was 
quite  alone.  For  a  time  she  lay  thinking  of  Margaret,  then 
her  thoughts  turned  upon  George  and  his  "  amazing  nropo- 
gltion."  "  Such  unheard  of  insolence  !"  she  exclaimed  ^nd 
she  was  proceeding  farther  with  her  soliloquy,  when  a  pp-"ni- 
liar  noise  upon  the  stairs  without  caught  her  ear,  and  rais 
ing  herself  upon  her  elbow,  she  listened  intently  to  the  so-'nd 
which  came  nearer  and  nearer,  and  seemed  like  some  me 
creeping  slo.wly,  painfully,  for  she  could  hear  at  intervals  a 
long  drawn  breath,  or  groan,  and  with  a  vague  feeling  nf  un 
easiness,  she  awaited  anxiously  the  appearance  of  her  visito*  ; 
nor  waited  long,  for  the  half  closed  door  swung  slowlv  barK, 
and  through  the  gathering  darkness  the  shape  carne  crawl 
ing  on,  over  the  threshold,  into  the  room,  towards  the  enr- 
nor,  its  limbs  distorted  and  bent,  its  white  hair  sweeping  i'ie 
floor.  AVith  a  smothered  cry,  Madam  Con  way  hid  beneath 


156  MAGGIE    MILLER 

tlie  bedclothes,  looking  cautiously  out  at  the  singular  objecl 
which  came  creeping  on  until  the  bed  was  reached.  It 
touched  ihe  counterpane,  it  was  struggling  to  regain  its  feet, 
and  with  a  scream  of  horror  the  terrified  woman  cried  out, 
"  Fiend,  why  are  you  here?"  while  a  faint  voice  replied,  "  I 
am  looking  for  Margaret.  I  thought  she  was  in  bed  ;"  and 
rising  up  from  her  crouching  posture,  Hagar  Warren  stood 
face  to  face  with  the  woman  she  had  so  long  deceived. 

"  Wretch  !"  exclaimed  the  latter,  her  pride  returning  as 
she  recognized  old  Hagar,  and  thought,  "  She  is  Maggie's 
grandmother.  Wretch,  how  dare  you  come  into  my  pres 
ence  ?  Leave  this  room  at  once,"  and  a  shrill  cry  of  "  Theo, 
Theo,"  rang  through  the  house,  bringing  Theo  at  once  to 
the  chamber,  where  she  started  involuntarily  at  the  sight 
which  met  her  view. 

"  Who  is  it  ?     Who  is  it  ?"  she  exclaimed. 

"  It's  Hagar  Warren.  Take  her  away  I"  screamed  Madam 
Conway  ;  while  Hagar,  raising  her  withered  hand  deprecat- 
ingly,  said  :  "  Hear  me  first.  Do  you  know  where  Marga 
ret  is  ?  Has  she  been  found  ?" 

"  No,  no,"  answered  Theo,  bounding  to  her  side,  while 
Madam  Conway  forgot  to  scream,  and  bent  eagerly  forward 
to  listen,  her  symptoms  of  dissolution  disappearing  one  by 
one,  as  the  strange  narrative  proceeded,  and  ere  its  close, 
she  was  nearly  dressed,  standing  erect  as  ever,  her  face  glow- 
leg,  and  her  eyes  lighted  up  with  joy. 

"  Gone  to  Leominster  !  Henry  Warner's  half-sister  !"  she 
exclaimed.  "  Why  didn't  she  add  a  postscript  to  that  let 
ter,  and  tell  us  so  ?  though  the  poor  child  couldn't  think  of 
everything  ;"  and  then,  unmindful  of  George  Douglas,  who 
af  that  moment  entered  the  room,  she  continued  :  "  I  should 
suppose  Douglas  might  have  found  it  out  ere  this.  But  the 
•nomcnt  I  put  my  eyes  ^>on  that  woman,  I  knew  no  child  of 


HOME.  487 

hers  would  ever  know  enough  to  find  Margaret.  The  War 
ners  are  a  tolerably  good  family,  I  presume.  I'll  go  after  her 
at  once.  Theo,  bring  my  broche  shawl,  and  wouldn't  yon 
wear  my  satin  hood  ?  'Twill  be  warmer  than  my  leg 
horn  " 

"  Grandma,"  said  Theo,  in  utter  astonishment,  "what  o 
you  mean  ?  You  surely  are  not  going  to  Leominster  to 
night,  as  sick  as  you  are  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  am  going  to  Leominster  to-night,"  answered  the 
decided  woman,  "  and  this  gentleman,"  waving  her  hand 
majestically  towards  George,  "  will  oblige  me  much  by  see 
ing  that  the  carriage  is  brought  out." 

Theo  was  about  to  remonstrate,  when  George  whispered 
"  Let  her  go  ;  Henry  and  Rose  are  probably  not  at  home, 
but  Margaret  may  be  there.  At  all  events  a  little  airing 
will  do  the  old  lady  good  ;"  and  rather  pleased  than  other 
wise  with  the  expedition,  he  went  after  John,  who  pro 
nounced  his  mistress  "  crazier  than  Hagar." 

But  it  wasn't  for  him  to  dictate,  and  grumbling  at  the 
prospect  before  him,  he  harnessed  his  horses  and  drove  them 
to  the  door,  where  Madam  Conway  was  already  in  wait 
ing. 

"  See  that  everything  is  in  order  for  our  return,"  she  said 
to  Theo,  who  promised  compliance,  and  then,  herself  bewil 
dered,  listened  to  the  carriage  as  it  rolled  away  ;  it  seemed 
so  like  a  dream  that  the  woman,  who  three  hours  before 
could  scarcely  speak  aloud,  had  now  started  for  a  ride  c ' 
many  miles  in  the  damp  night-air  !     But  love  can  accoc 
plish  miracles,  and  it  made  the  eccentric  lady  strong,  buo} 
ing  up  her  spirits,  and  prompting  her  to  cheer  on  the  coach 
man,  until  just  as  the  dawn  grew  rosy  in  the  east,  Leomin- 
Bter  appeared  in  view.     The  house  was  frwd,  the  carriage 
let  down,  and   then  with   a  slight  trembling  in  bcr 
-.50 


463  MAGGIE    MILLER. 

limbs,  Madam  Conway  alighted  and  walked  up  the  gravelled 
path,  casting  eager,  searching  glances  around  and  comment 
ing  as  follows  : 

"  Everything  is  in  good  taste  ;  they  must  be  somdody, 
these  Warners.  I'm  glad  it  is  no  worse."  And  with  each 
now  indication  of  refinement  in  Margaret's  relatives,  the 
disgrace  seemed  less  and  less  in  the  mind  of  the  proud 
Englishwoman. 

The  ringing  of  the  bell  brought  down  Janet,  who  with  an 
inquisitive  look  at  the  satin  hood  and  bundle  of  shawls, 
ushered  the  stranger  into  the  parlor,  and  then  went  for  her 
mistress.  Taking  the  card  her  servant  brought,  Mrs.  War 
per  road  with  some  little  trepidation,  the  name,  "  MADAM  CON- 
WAT,  HILLSDALE."  From  what  she  had  heard,  she  was  not 
prepossessed  in  the  lady's  favor  ;  but,  curious  to  know  why 
she  was  there  at  this  early  hour,  she  hastened  the  making  of 
her  toilet,  and  went  down  to  the  parlor,  where  Madam  Con- 
way  sat,  coiled  in  one  corner  of  the  sofa,  which  she  had 
satisfied  herself  was  covered  with  real  brocatelle,  as  were 
also  the  chairs  within  the  room.  The  tables  of  rosewood 
and  marble,  and  the  expensive  curtains  had  none  of  them 
escaped  her  notice,  and  in  a  mood  which  more  common  fur 
niture  would  never  have  produced,  Madam  Conway  arose 
to  meet  Mrs.  Warner,  who  received  her  politely,  and  then 
waited  to  hear  her  errand. 

It  was  told  in  a  few  words.  She  had  come  for  Margaret 
— Margaret,  whom  she  had  loved  for  eighteen  years,  and 
could  not  now  cast  off,  even  though  she  were  not  of  the  Con- 
way  and  Davenport  extraction. 

"  I  can  easily  understand  how  painful  must  have  been  the 
knowledge  that  Maggie  was  not  your  own,"  returned  Mrs. 
Warner,  for  sh°  is  a  girl  of  whom  any  one  might  be  proud ;  but 
juu  are  laboring  under  a  mistake — Henry  is  not  her  brother.* 


HOME.  459 

»nd  then,  very  briefly  she  explained  the  matter  to  Madam 
Conway,  who  having  heard  so  much,  was  now  surprised  at 
nothing,  and  who  felt,  it  may  be,  a  little  gratified  in  know 
ing  that  Henry  was,  after  all,  nothing  to  Margaret,  save  the 
husband  of  her  sister.  But  a  terrible  disappointment  await 
ed  her.  "  Margaret  was  not  there,"  and  so  loud  were  her 
lamentations,  that  some  time  clasped  ere  Mrs.  Warner  could 
make  her  listen,  while  she  explained,  that  "  Mr.  Carrollton 
had  found  Maggie  the  day  previous,  at  the  Falls,  that  they 
were  probably  in  Albany  now,  and  would  reach  Hillsdalo 
that  very  day;"  such  at  least  was  the  import  of  the  telegram 
which  Mrs.  AVarner  had  received  the  evening  before.  "  They 
wish  to  surprise  you  undoubtedly,"  she  said,  "  and  conse 
quently  have  not  telegraphed  to  you." 

This  seemed  probable,  and  forgetting  her  weariness,  Madam 
Conway  resolved  upon  leaving  John  to  drive  home  at  his 
leisure,  while  she  took  the  Leominster  cars,  which  reached 
Worcester  in  time  for  the  upward  train.  This  matter  ad- 
iusted,  she  tried  to  be  quiet;  but  her  excitement  increased 
each  moment,  and  when  at  last  breakfast  was  served,  she 
did  but  little  justice  to  the  tempting  viands  which  her 
hostess  set  before  her.  Margaret's  chamber  was  visited 
next,  and  very  lovingly  she  patted  and  smoothed  the  downy 
pillows,  for  the  sake  of  the  bright  head  which  had  rested 
there,  while  to  herself  she  whispered  abstractedly,  "Yea, 
yes,"  though  to  what  she  was  giving  her  assent,  she  could 
not  tell.  She  only  knew  that  she  was  very  happy,  and  very 
impatient  to  be  gone,  and  when  at  last  she  did  go,  it  seemed 
to  her  an  age  ere  Worcester  was  reached. 

Resolutely  turning  her  head  away,  lest  she  should  see  the 
scene  of  her  disaster,  when  last  she  was  in  that  city,  she 
walked  up  and  down  the  ladies'  room,  her  satin  hood  and 
heavy  broche  shawl,  on  that  warm  July  morning,  attracting 


MO  MAGGIE    MILLER. 

much  attention.  But  little  did  she  care.  "Margaret,"  wraa 
the  burden  of  her  thoughts,  and  the  appearance  of  Mrs. 
Douglas  herself,  would  scarcely  have  disturbed  her.  Much 
less,  then,  did  the  presence  of  a  queerly  dressed  young  girl, 
who,  entering  the  car  with  her,  occupied  from  necessity  the 
same  seat,  feeling  herself  a  little  annoyed  at  being  thus 
obliged  to  sit  so  near  one  whom  she  mentally  pronounced 
"  mighty  unsociable,"  for  not  once  did  Madam  Con  way  turn 
ber  face  that  way,  so  intent  was  she  upon  watching  their 
apparent  speed,  and  counting  the  number  of  miles  they  had 
come. 

When  Charlton  was  reached,  however,  she  did  observe 
the  woman  in  a  shaker,  who,  with  a  pail  of  huckleberries  on 
her  arm,  was  evidently  waiting  for  some  one. 

An  audible  groan  from  the  depths  of  the  satin  hood,  aa 
Betsey  Jam  passed  out  and  the  cars  passed  on,  showed  plain 
ly  that  the  mother  and  sister  of  George  Douglas  were  recog 
nized,  particularly  as  the  former  wore  the  red  and  yellow 
calico,  which,  having  been  used  as  a  "  dress  up  "  the  summer 
before,  now  did  its  owner  service  as  a  garment  of  every-day 
wear.  But  not  long  did  Madam  Conway  suffer  her  mind  to 
dwell  upon  matter  so  trivial.  Hillsdale  was  not  far  away, 
and  she  came  each  moment  nearer.  Two  more  stations 
were  reached — the  haunted  swamp  was  passed — Chicopee 
River  was  in  sight — the  bridge  appeared  in  view — the 
whistle  sounded,  and  she  was  there. 

Half  an  hour  later,  and  Theo,  looking  from  her  window, 
started  in  surprise  as  she  saw  the  village  omnibus  drive 
ap  to  their  door. 

'*  'Tis  grandmother  I"  she  cried,  and  running  to  meet  her 
she  asked  why  she  had  returned  so  soon. 

"  They  are  coming  at  noon,"  answered  the  excited  woman 
— tuen,  hurrying  into  the  house,  and  throwing  off  her  hood 


HOME.  46i 

Bhc  continued,  "  He's  found  her  at  the  Falls  ;  they  are  be 
tween  here  and  Albany  now  ;  tell  everybody  to  hurry  as  fast 
as  they  can  ;  tell  Hannah  to  make  a  chicken  pie — Maggie 
wus  fond  of  that  ;  and  turkey — tell  her  to  kill  a  turkey — it's 
Maggie's  favorite  dish — and  ice  cream,  too  1  I  wish  I  had 
some  this  minute,"  and  she  wiped  the  perspiration  from  her 
burning  face. 

No  more  hysterics  now  ;  no  more  lonesome  nights  ;  no 
more  thoughts  of  death — for  Margaret  was  coming  home— 
the  best-loved  of  them  all.  Joyfully  the  servants  told  to 
each  other  the  glad  news,  disbelieving  entirely  the  report  fast 
gaining  circulation,  that  the  queenly  Maggie  wa^  lowly  bora 
— a  grandchild  of  old  Hagar.  Up  and  down  the  stairs 
Madam  Conway  ran,  flitting  from  room  to  room  and  tarry 
ing  longest  in  that  of  Margaret,  where  the  sunlight  came  iu 
softly  through  the  half  closed  blinds  and  the  fair  summer 
blossoms  smiled  a  welcome  for  the  expected  one. 

Suddenly  the  noontide  stillness  was  broken  by  a  sound, 
deafening  and  shrill  on  ordinary  occasions,  but  falling  now 
like  music  on  Madam  Conway's  ear,  for  by  that  sound  she 
knew  that  Margaret  was  near.  Wearily  went  the  half  hour 
by,  and  then,  from  the  head  of  the  tower  stairs,  Theo  cried 
out,  "  She  is  coming  !"  while  the  grandmother  buried  her 
face  in  the  pillows  of  the  lounge,  and  asked  to  be  alone 
when  she  took  back  to  her  bosom  the  child  which  w*s  net 
hers. 

Earnestly,  as  if  to  read  the  inmost  soul,  each  looked  into 
the  other's  eyes — Margaret  and  Theo — and  while  the  voice 
of  the  latter  was  choked  with  tears,  she  wound  her  arms 
around  the  graceful  neck,  which  bent  to  the  caress,  and 
whispered  low,  "  You  are  my  sister  still." 

Against  the  vine-wreathed  balustrade  a  fairy  form  was 
leaning,  holding  back  her  breath  lest  she  should  freak  the 


162  MAGGIE    MILLER. 

deep  silence  of  that  meeting.  In  her  bosom  there  was  no 
pang  of  fear  lest  Theo  should  be  loved  the  best  ;  and  even 
had  there  been,  it  could  not  surely  have  remained,  for 
stretching  out  her  arm,  Margaret  drew  her  to  her  side,  and 
placing  her  hand  in  that  of  Theo  said,  "  You  are  both  my 
Bisters  now,"  while  Arthur  Carrollton,  bending  down,  kissed 
the  lips  of  the  three,  saying  as  he  did  so,  "  Thus  do  I 
acknowledge  your  relationship  to  me." 

"  Why  don't  she  come  ?"  the  waiting  Madam  Conway 
sighed,  just  as  Theo  pointing  to  the  open  door,  bade  Mar 
garet  "  go  in." 

There  was  a  blur  before  the  lady's  eyes — a  buzzing  in  her 
ears — and  the  footfall  she  had  listened  for  so  long,  was  now 
unheard  as  it  came  slowly  to  her  side.  But  the  light  touch 
upon  her  arm — the  well  remembered  voice  within  her  ear, 
calling  her  "  Madam  Conway,"  sent  through  her  an  electric 
thrill,  and  starting  up  she  caught  the  wanderer  in  her  arms, 
crying  imploringly,  "  Not  that  name,  Maggie  darling  ;  call 
me  grandma,  as  you  used  to  do — call  me  grandma  still," 
and  smoothing  back  the  long  black  tresses,  she  looked  to 
Bee  if  grief  had  left  its  impress  upon  her  fair  young  face.  It 
was  paler  now,  and  thinner,  too,  than  it  was  wont  to  be, 
and  while  her  tears  fell  fast  upon  it,  Madam  Conway  whis 
pered,  "  You  have  suffered  much,  my  child,  and  so  have  I. 
Why  did  you  go  away  ?  Say,  Margaret,  why  did  you  leave 
Die  all  alone  ?" 

"  To  learn  how  much  you  loved  me,"  answered  Margaret, 
to  whom  this  moment  brought  happiness  second  only  to  that 
which  she  had  felt  when  on  the  river  bank  she  sat  with  Ar 
thur  Carrollton,  and  heard  him  tell  how  much  she  had  been 
mourned — how  lonesome  was  the  house  without  her — and 
bow  sad  where  all  their  hearts. 

But  that   was   over   now  ;  no   more   sadness — no  more 


HOME  »a« 

tears  ;  the  lost  oae  had  returned  ;  Margaret  w  is  home 
again — home  in  the  hearts  of  all,  and  nothing  could  dislodge 
her — not  even  the  story  of  her  birth,  vrlrich  Arthur  Carroll- 
ton,  spurning  at  further  deception,  told  to  the  listening  ser 
vants,  who,  having  always  respected  old  ITagar  for  her  posi 
tion  in  the  household  as  well  as  for  her  education,  so  supe 
rior  to  their  own,  sent  up  a  deafening  shout,  first  for  "  Hagar's 
grandchild,"  and  next  for  "  Miss  Margaret  forever  " 


*64  MAGGIE    MILLER. 


CHAPTER    XXV. 

HAGAR. 

BY  Thco's  request,  old  Hagar  had  been  taken  homo  the 
day  before,  yielding  submissively,  for  her  frenzied  rnood  was 
over — her  strength  was  gone — her  life  was  nearly  spent — • 
and  Ilagar  did  not  wish  to  live.  That  for  which  she  had 
sinned  had  been  accomplished,  and  though  it  had  cost  her 
clays  and  nights  of  anguish,  she  was  satisfied  at  last.  Marga 
ret  was  coining  home  again — would  be  a  lady  still — the  bride 
of  Arthur  Carrollton,  for  George  Douglas  had  told  her  so, 
and  she  was  willing  now  to  die,  but  not  until  she  had  seen 
her  once  again — had  looked  into  the  beautiful  face  of  which 
she  had  been  so  proud. 

Not  to-day,  however,  does  she  expect  her ;  and  just  aa 
the  sun  was  setting,  the  sun  which  shines  on  Margaret  at 
home,  she  falls  away  to  sleep.  It  was  at  this  hour,  that 
Margaret  was  wont  to  visit  her,  and  now,  as  the  tree-tops 
grew  red  in  the  day's  departing  glory,  a  graceful  form  came 
down  the  woodland  path,  where  for  many  weeks  the  grass 
'has  not  been  crushed  beneath  her  feet.  They  saw  her  as 
she  left  the  house,  Madam  Conway,  Theo,  all,  but  none 
asked  whither  she  was  going.  They  knew,  and  one,  who 
loved  her  best  of  all,  followed  slowly  after,  waiting  in  the 
woods  until  that  interview  should  end. 

Hagar  lay  calmly  sleeping.      The  servant  was  as   usual 


HAGAR.  461 

away,  and  there  was  no  eve  watching  Margaret  as  with 
burning  cheeks,  and  beating  heart,  she  crossed  the  thresh 
old  of  the  door,  pausing  not,  faltering  not,  until  the  bed  wag 
reached— the  bed  where  Hagar  lay,  her  crippled  hands  fold 
ed  meekly  upon  her  breast,  her  white  hair  shading  a  whiter 
face,  and  a  look  about  her  half  shut  mouth,  as  if  the  thin 
pale  lips  had  been  much  used  of  late  to  breathe  the  word 
"forgive."  Maggie  had  never  seen  her  thus  before,  and  the 
worn-out,  aged  face,  had  something  touching  in  its  sad  ex 
pression,  and  something  startling,  too,  bidding  her  hasten,  if 
to  that  woman  she  would  speak. 

"  Hagar,"  she  essayed  to  say,  but  the  word  died  on  her 
lips,  for  standing  there  alone,  with  the  daylight  fading  from 
the  earth,  and  the  lifelight  fading  from  the  form  before 
her,  it  seemed  not  meet  that  she  should  thus  address  the 
sleeper.  There  was  a  name  however  by  which  she  called 
another — a  name  of  love,  and  it  would  make  the  withered 
heart  of  Hagar  Warren  bound,  and  beat,  and  throb  with 
untold  joy.  And  Margaret  said  that  name  at  last,  whisper 
ing  it  first  softly  to  herself ;  then  bending  down  so  that  her 
breath  stirred  the  snow-white  hair,  she  repeated  it  aloud 
starting  involuntarily  as  the  rude  walls  echoed  back  the 
name  "  Grandmother  1" 

"  Grandmother  !"  Through  the  senses  locked  in  sleep  it 
penetrated,  and  the  dim  eyes,  once  so  fiery  and  black  ;  grew 
large  and  bright  again,  as  Hagar  Warren  woke. 

Was  it  a  delusion,  that  beauteous  form  which  met  her 
view,  that  soft  hand  on  her  brow,  or  was  it  Maggie  Miller  ? 

"  Grandmother,"  the  low  voice  said  again,  "  I  am  Maggie, 
Hester's  child.  Can  you  see  me  ?  Do  ycu  know  that  I  ana 
here  ?" 

Yes,  through  the  films  of  age,  through  the  films  of  com 
ing  death,  and  through  the  gathering  darkness,  old  Hagar 

20* 


46<  MAGGIE    MILLER. 

saw  and  knew,  and  with  a  scream  of  joy,  her  shrunken  arms 
wound  themselves  convulsively  around  the  maiden's  neck, 
drawing  her  near,  and  nearer  still,  until  the  shrivelled  lips 
touched  the  cheek  of  her  who  did  not  turn  away,  but  nv 
turned  that  kiss  of  love. 

"  Say  it  again,  say  that  word  once  more,"  and  the  arms 
•closed  tighter  round  the  form  of  Margaret,  who  breathed 
it  yet  again,  while  the  childish  woman  sobbed  aloud  :  "  It 
is  sweeter  than  the  angels'  song,  to  hear  you  call  me  so." 

She  did  not  ask  her  when  she  came — she  did  not  ask  her 
where  she  had  been  ;  but  Maggie  told  her  all,  sitting  by  her 
Bide  with  the  poor  hands  clasped  in  her  own  ;  then,  as  the 
twilight  shadows  deepened  in  the  room,  she  struck  a  light, 
and  coming  near  to  Hagar,  said,  "  Am  I  much  like  my 
mother  ?" 

"  Yes,  yes,  only  more  winsome,"  was  the  answer,  and  the 
half  blind  eyes  looked  proudly  -at  the  beautiful  girl  bending 
over  the  humble  pillow. 

"  Do  you  know  that  ?"  Maggie  asked,  holding  to  view  the 
ambrotype  of  Hester  Hamilton. 

For  an  instant  Ilagar  Tvavered,  then  hugging  the  picture 
to  her  bosom,  she  laughed  and  cried  together,  whispering  as 
she  did  so,  "  My  little  girl,  my  Hester,  my  baby  that  I  used 
to  sing  to  sleep,  in  our  home  away  over  the  sea." 

Hagar's  mind  was  wandering  amid  the  scenes  of  bygone 
years,  but  it  soon  came  back  again  to  the  present  time,  and 
she  asked  of  Margaret  whence  that  picture  came.  In  a  few 
words,  Maggie  told  her,  and  then  for  a  time  there  was  silence, 
vhich  was  broken  at  last  by  Hagar's  voice,  weaker  now 
than  when  she  spoke  before. 

"  Maggie,"  she  said,  "  what  of  this  Arthur  Carrollton  ? 
Will  he  make  you  his  bride  ?" 

"  He  has  so  promised  "  answered  Mag  ;  and  Hagar  con 


HAGAR.  46) 

tinned  :  "  He  will  take  you  to  England,  and  you  will  be  a 
lady,  sure.  Margaret,  listen  to  me.  'Tis  the  last  time  we 
shall  ever  talk  together,  you  and  I,  and  I  am  glad  that  it  is 
BO.  I  have  greatly  sinned,  but  I  have  been  forgiven,  and  I 
am  willing  now  to  die.  Everything  I  wished  for  has  come 
to  pass,  even  the  hearing  you  call  me  by  that  blessed  name  ; 
but  Maggie,  when  to-morrow  they  say  that  I  am  dead — 
when  you  come  down  to  look  upon  me  lying  here  asleep,  you 
needn't,  call  me  '  Grandmother,'  yon  may  say  '  poor  Hagar ' 
with  the  rest — and  Maggie,  is  it  too  much  to  ask  that  your 
own  hands  will  arrange  my  hair,  fix  my  cap,  and  straighten 
my  poor  old  crooked  limbs  for  the  coffin  ?  And  if  I  rhould 
look  decent,  will  you,  when  nobodv  sees  you  do  it — Madam 
Conway,  Arthur  Carrollton,  nobody  who  is  proud — will  you, 
Maggie,  kiss  me  once  for  the  sake  of  what  I've  suffered  that 
you  might  be  what  you  are  ?" 

"  Yes,  yes,  I  will,"  was  Maggie's  answer,  her  tears  falling 
fast,  and  a  fear  creeping  into  her  heart,  as  by  the  dim  can 
dle  light,  she  saw  a  nameless  shadow  settling  down  on 
Hagar's  face. 

The  servant  entered  at  this  moment,  and  glancing  at  old 
Hagar,  sunk  into  a  chair,  for  she  knew  that  shadow  was 
death. 

"  Maggie,"  and  the  voice  was  now  a  whisper,  "  I  wish  1 
could  once  more  see  this  Mr.  Cr«Tollton.  'Tis  the  nature 
of  his  kin  to  be  sometimes  overbearing,  and  though  I  am 
only  old  Hagar  Warren,  he  might  heed  my  dying  words, 
and  be  more  thoughtful  of  your  happiness.  Do  you  think 
that  he  would  come  ?" 

Ere  Maggie  had  time  to  answer,  there  wo«  a  step  upon 
the  floor,  and  Arthur  Carrollton  stood  at  her  sidt  He  had 
waited  for  her  long,  and  growing  at  last  impatient,  had 
stolen  to  the  open  door,  and  when  the  dying  woman  asked 


»«8  MAGGIE    MILLER. 

for  him,  be  had  trampled  down  his  pride,  and  entered  the 
humble  room.  Winding  his  arm  round  Margaret,  who 
trembled  violently,  he  said,  "  Hagar,  I  am  here.  Have  yoo 
aught  to  say  to  me  ?" 

Quickly  the  glazed  eyes  turned  towards  him,  and  the 
clammy  hand  was  timidly  extended.  He  took  it  unhesitat 
ingly,  while  the  pale  lips  murmured  faintly  :  "  Maggie's  too." 
Then  holding  both  between  her  own,  old  Hagar  said  so 
lemnly  :  "  Young  man,  as  you  hope  for  heaven,  deal  kindly 
with  my  child,"  and  Arthur  Carrollton  answered  her  aloud  : 
"  As  I  hope  for  heaven,  I  will,"  while  Margaret  fell  upon 
her  knees  and  wept.  Raising  herself  in  bed,  Hagar  laid  her 
hands  upon  the  head  of  the  kneeling  girl,  breathing  over 
her  a  whispered  blessing  ;  then  the  hands  pressed  heavily, 
the  fingers  clung  with  a  loving  grasp,  as  it  were,  to  the 
bands  of  shining  hair — the  thin  lips  ceased  to  move — the 
head  fell  back  upon  the  pillow,  motionless  and  still,  and 
Arthur  Carrollton,  leading  Margaret  away,  told  to  her  gen 
tly;  that  Hagar  was  dead. 

****** 

Carefully,  tenderly,  as  if  she  had  been  a  wounded  dove, 
did  the  whole  household  demean  themselves  towards  Mar 
garet,  seeing  that  everything  needful  was  done,  but  men 
tioning  never  in  her  presence  the  name  of  the  dead.  And 
Margaret's  position  was  a  trying  one,  for  though  Hagar  had 
been  her  grandmother,  she  had  never  regarded  her  as  such, 
and  she  could  not  now  affect  a  grief  she  did  not  feel.  Still, 
from  her  earliest  childhood  she  had  loved  the  strange  old 
woman,  and  she  mourned  for  her  now,  as  friend  mourncth 
for  friend,  when  there  is  no  tie  of  blood  between  them. 

Her  promise,  too,  was  kept,  and  with  her  own  hands  she 
smoothed  the  snow-white  hair,  tied  on  the  muslin  cap,  folded 
the  stiffened  arms,  and  then,  unmindful  who  was  looking  on, 


HAGAR.  4M 

kissed  twice  the  placid  face,  which  seemed  to  smile  >n  herio 
death. 


By  the  side  of  Hester  Hamilton  they  made  another  grave, 
ind  with  Arthur  Carrollton  and  Rose  standing  at  either 
side,  Margaret  looked  on  while  the  weary  and  worn  was  laid 
to  rest  ;  then  slowly  she  retraced  her  steps,  walking  now 
with  Madam  Con  way,  for  Arthm  oirrollton  and  Rose  had 
lingered  at  the  grave,  talking  together  of  a  plun,  which  had 
presented  itself  to  the  minds  of  both  as  they  stood  by  the 
humble  stone,  which  told  where  Margaret's  mother  slept. 
To  Margaret,  however,  they  said  not  a  word,  nor  yet  to 
Madam  Con  way,  though  they  both  united  in  urging  the  two 
ladies  to  accompany  Theo  to  Worcester  for  a  few  days. 

"  Mrs.  Warner  will  help  me  keep  house,"  Mr.  Carrollton 
paid,  advancing  the  while  so  many  good  reasons  why  Mar 
garet  at  least  should  go,  that  she  finally  consented,  and 
went  down  to  Worcester,  together  with  Madam  Con- 
way,  George  Douglas,  Theo  and  Henry,  the  latter  of  whom 
seemed  quite  as  forlorn  as  did  she  herself,  for  Rose  was  left 
behind,  and  without  her  he  was  nothing. 

Madam  Conway  had  been  very  gracious  to  him  ;  his  fam 
ily  were  good,  and  when,  as  they  passed  the  Charlton  depot, 
thoughts  of  the  leghorn  bonnet  and  blue  umbrella  intruded 
themselves  upon  her,  she  half  wished  that  Henry  had  broken 
his  leg  in  Thco's  behalf,  and  so  saved  her  from  bearing  thfl 
nnme  of  Douglas. 

The  week  went  by,  passing  rapidly  as  all  weeks  will,  ami 
Margaret  was  again  at  home.  Rose  was  there  still,  and 
just  as  the  sun  was  setting,  she  took  her  sister's  hand,  and 
ed  her  out  into  the  open  air,  toward  the  resting-place  of 
tbe  dead,  where  a  change  had  been  wrought,  and  Margare^ 


170  MAGGIE    MILLER. 

leaning  over  the  iron  gate,  comprehended  at  once  the  feel 
ing  which  had  prompted  Mr.  Carrollton  and  Hose  to  desire 
her  absence  for  a  time.  The  humble  stone  was  gone,  an£ 
in  its  place  there  stood  a  handsome  monument,  less  impos 
ing,  and  less  expensive  than  that  of  Mrs.  Miller,  it  is  true  ; 
but  still  chaste  and  elegant,  bearing  upon  it  simply  the 
names  of  "  Hester  Hamilton,"  and  her  mother  "  Hagar 
Warren,"  with  the  years  of  their  death.  The  little  grave, 
too,  where  for  many  years  Maggie  herself  had  been  sup 
posed  to  sleep,  was  not  beneath  the  pine  tree  now  ;  that 
mound  was  levelled  down,  and  another  had  been  made,  just 
where  the  grass  was  growing  rank  and  green  beneath  the 
shadow  of  the  taller  stone,  and  there  side  by  side  they  lay 
at  list  together,  the  mother  and  her  infant  child. 

"  It  was  kind  in  you  to  do  this,"  Margaret  said,  and  then, 
with  her  arm  round  Rose's  waist,  she  spoke  of  the  coming 
time  when  the  sun  of  another  hemisphere  would  be  shining 
down  upon  her,  saying  she  should  think  often  of  that  hour, 
that  spot,  and  that  sister,  who  answered  :  "  Every  year  when 
the  spring  rains  fall,  I  shall  come  to  see  that  the  grave  has 
been  well  kept,  for  you  know  that  she  was  my  mother,  too," 
and  she  pointed  to  the  name  of  "  Hester,"  deep  cut  in  the 
polished  marble. 

"  Not  yours  Rose,  but  mine"  said  Maggie.  "  My  mother, 
she  was,  and  as  such,  I  will  cherish  her  memory;"  then,  with 
her  arm  still  around  her  sister's  waist,  she  walked  slowly 
back  to  the  house. 

A  little  later,  and  while  Arthur  Carrollton,  with  Maggie 
Rt  his  side,  was  talking  to  her  of  something  which  made  the 
blushes  burn  on  her  still  pale  cheeks,  Madam  Conway  her- 
eelf  walked  out  to  witness  the  improvements,  lingering 
longest  at  the  little  grave,  and  saying  to  herself,  "  it  was 
very  thoughtful  in  Arthur,  very,  to  do  what  I  should  have 


HAGAR.  471 

done  myself  ere  this,  had  I  not-  been  afraid  of  Margaret's 
feelings." 

Then  turning  to  the  new  monument,  she  admired  ita 
cha:  te  beauty,  but  hardly  knew  whether  she  was  pleased  to 
barn  it  there  or  not. 

"  It's  very  handsome,"  she  said,  leaving  the  yard  ;  and 
walking  backward  to  observe  the  effect.  "  And  it  adds  much 
to  the  looks  of  the  place.  There  is  no  question  about  that.  It 
is  perfectly  proper,  too,  or  Mr.  Carrollton  would  never  have 
put  it  here,  for  he  knows  what  is  right,  of  course,"  and  the 
still  doubtful  lady  turned  away,  saying  as  she  did  so,  "  on 
the  whole  I  think  I  am  glad  that  Hester  has  a  handsome 
monument,  and  I  know  I  am  glad  that  Mrs.  Miller's  is  a 
littlf-  *ihe  taller  of  the  two  1" 


«7S  MAGGIE    MILLER. 


CHAPTER    XXVI. 

AUGUST   EIGHTEENTH,     1858. 

YEARS  hence,  if  the  cable  coil,  resting  far  down  in  thi 
mermaids'  home,  shall  prove  a  bond  of  perfect  peace  between 
the  mother  and  her  child,  thousands  will  recall  the  bright 
summer  morning,  when  through  the  caverns  of  the  mighty 
deep,  the  first  electric  message  came,  thrilling  the  nation's 
heart,  quickening  the  nation's  pulse,  and  with  the  music  of 
the  deep  toned  bell,  and  noise  of  the  cannon's  roar,  pro 
claiming  to  the  listening  multitude,  that  the  isle  beyond  the 
sea,  and  the  lands  which  to  the  westward  lie,  were  bound 
together,  shore  to  shore,  by  a  strange,  mysterious  tie.  And 
two  there  are  who,  in  their  happy  home,  will  oft  look  back 
npon  that  day,  that  18th  day  of  August,  which  gave  to  one 
of  Britain's  sons  as  fair  and  beautiful  a  bride  as  e'er  went 
forth  from  the  New  England  hills  to  dwell  beneath  a  foreign 
sky. 

They  had  not  intended  to  be  married  so  soon,  for  Mar 
garet  would  wait  a  little  longer ;  but  an  unexpected  and 
urgent  summons  home  made  it  necessary  for  Mr.  Carrollton 
to  go,  and  so  by  chance,  the  bridal  day  was  fixed  for  the 
18th.  None  save  the  family  were  present,  and  Madam  Con- 
way's  tears  fell  fast,  as  the  words  were  spoken  which  made 
them  one,  for  by  those  words  she  knew  that  she  and  Mar 
garet  must  part.  But  not  forever  ;  for  when  tht  oext  year's 


AUGUST    EIGHTEENTH.  479 

Bolnmn  leaves  shall  fall,  the  old  house  by  the  mill  will  again 
be  without  a  mistress,  while  in  a  handsome  country  seat 
beyond  the  sea,  Madam  Conway  will  demean  herself  right 
proudly  as  becometh  the  grandmother  of  Mrs.  Arthur  Car 
roll  ton.  T heo,  too,  and  Eose  will  both  be  there,  for  their 
husbands  have  so  promised,  and  when  the  Christmas  fires 
are  kindled  on  the  hearth,  and  the  ancient  pictures  on  the 
wall  take  a  richer  tinge  from  the  ruddy  light,  there  will  be  a 
happy  group  assembled  within  the  Carrollton  halls  ;  and 
Margaret,  the  happiest  of  them  all,  will  then  almost  forget 
that  ever  in  the  Hillsdale  woods,  sitting  at  Hagar's  feet,  she 
listened  with  a  breaking  heart  to  the  story  of  her  birth. 

But  not  the  thoughts  of  a  joyous  future  could  dissipate 
entirely  the  sadness  of  that  bridal,  for  Margaret  was  well 
beloved,  and  the  billow  which  would  roll  ere  lonor  between 

'  O 

her  and  her  childhood's  home,  stretched  many,  many  milea 
away.  Still  they  tried  to  be  cheerful,  and  Henry  Warner's 
merry  jokes  had  called  forth  more  than  one  gay  laugh,  when 
the  peal  of  bells  and  the  roll  of  drums  arrested  their  atten 
tion  ;  while  the  servants,  who  had  learned  the  cause  of  the 
rejoicing,  struck  up  "  God  save  the  Queen,"  and  from  an 
adjoining  field  a  rival  choir  sent  back  the  stirring  note  of 
'  Hail  Columbia  Happy  Land."  Mrs.  Jeffrey,  too,  was  busy 
la  secret  she  had  labored  at  the  rent  made  by  her  foot  in 
tie  flag  of  bygone  days,  and  now,  perspiring  at  every  pore, 
she  dragged  it  up  the  tower  stairs,  planting  it  herself  upon 
the  house-top,  where  side  by  side  with  the  royal  banner,  it 
waved  in  the  summer  breeze.  And  this  she  did,  not  because 
she  cared  aught  for  the  cable,  in  which  she  "  didn't  believe" 
and  declared  "  would  never  work,"  but  because  she  would 
celebrate  Margaret's  wedding  day,  and  so  made  some  amends 
for  her  interference  when  once  before  the  stars  and  stripes 
Bad  floated  above  the  old  stone  house. 


4«H  MAGGIE    MILLER. 

And  thus  it  was,  amid  smiles  and  tears,  amid  bells  and 
drums,  and  waving  flags  and  merry  song,  amid  noisy  shout 
and  booming  guns,  that  double  bridal  day  was  kept;  and 
when  the  sun  went  down,  it  left  a  glory  on  the  western 
eiouds  as  if  they,  too,  had  donned  their  best  attire  in  honor 
of  the  union. 

*  *  *  *  *  * 

It  is  moonlight  on  the  land,  glorious,  beautiful  moonlight. 
On  Hagar's  peaceful  grave  it  falls,  and  glancing  off  from 
the  polished  stone,  shines  across  the  fields  upon  the  old 
etone  house,  where  all  is  cheerless  now  and  still.  No  life — 
no  sound — no  bounding  step — no  gleeful  song.  All  is  silent, 
all  is  sad.  The  light  of  the  household  has  departed  ;  it 
went  with  the  -hour  when  first  to  each  other  the  lonesome 
servants  said,  "  Margaret  is  gone." 

Yes,  she  is  gone,  and  all  through  the  darkened  rooms 
there  is  found  no  trace  of  her,  but  away  to  the  eastward 
the  moonlight  falls  upon  the  sea,  where  a  noble  vessel  rides. 
With  pails  unfurled  to  the  evening  breeze,  it  speeds  away — 
away  from  the  loved  hearts  on  the  shore  which  after  that 
bark,  and  its  precious  freight,  have  sent  many  a  throb  of 
love.  Upon  the  deck  of  that  gallant  ship  there  stands  a 
beautiful  bride,  looking  across  the  water  with  straining  eye, 
and  smiling  through  her  tears  on  him  who  wipes  those  tears 
away,  and  whispers  in  her  ear,  "  I  will  be  more  to  you, 
my  wife,  than  they  have  ever  been." 

So,  witli  the  love-light  shining  on  her  heart,  and  the  moon 
light  shining  on  the  wave,  we  bid  adieu  to  Due  who  bearf 
BO  more  the  name  of  "  MAGGIE  MILLER." 


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UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 

This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


Form  L9-Series  4939 


3  1158  00327  1987 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


A  A      000023882    4 


HI 


%MA 
BHB 


